


As the World Falls Down

by Dogsled



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, First Time, Gen, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Threesome, Tragedy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-06
Updated: 2007-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/pseuds/Dogsled
Summary: Living incognito as a Muggle, Harry Potter a.k.a. Emrys Monthaven lives under Voldemort's rule. One day his life goes spiralling into one of slavery and sex. Will he still be able to fulfil the prophecy and break free of his Masters?





	1. Emrys Monthaven

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Chapter 1

Harry watched in fascination as the world fell down.  
It was a strange thing to watch, in reality, and it certainly did not happen all at once. It was gradual; unpredictable, in the very manner of their enemies. 

The walls of a fort have their weaknesses, and it was merely a case of finding them, and then exploiting them until the wall eventually fell. The walls which made up Harry’s world were not small, inconsequential mounds of earth and clay; they were strong fortifications, built with many one way niches with which to batter the enemy.

But even Troy, with its great walls was eventually penetrated. Even the Titanic, nigh unsinkable, quickly went to its watery grave. It could take centuries to bring down these walls, as it would to bring down a dynasty, or an empire. Or it could happen overnight, or with a particularly unfortunate accident.

But Harry’s world was built around one sole supporting pillar; a fount of knowledge and power so great that it imposed great focus upon all those around him, even in the way that those who followed eventually did not want to know how this pillar was the man he was – for surely there could be no explanation for greatness of this kind.

Dumbledore was that pillar. And he had been murdered – brutally and cruelly murdered.

And just like that, the world had begun to fall. Slowly at first, though occasionally it required a little further violence - the touch of the terrible parasite - to send a particularly stubborn section to the ground.

And now only the scattered ruins remained of something that had once been great, mostly covered with that poisonous and spreading plant. Now and again one might be able to find a little decoration in the remains, to show what it had once belonged to, but if so it was very rare, and quickly smothered by the parasite.

Even so, his enemies were no longer interested in smashing these last bits of rubble, making them unrecognisable. They were determined only in destroying the foundation on which Harry’s world had been built, on erasing it from existence, so that they might seep their own insipid roots deep into the soil, and fashion their new, tangled world; of which there could surely be no escape.

And Harry sat and he watched it all happen. 

Dumbledore’s magic had died with him, and nowhere was safe now for the boy who lived, even though he might still have called the Dursley’s house ‘home’. Even they had not escaped the terrible wrath of Voldemort, when he had come in search of Harry.

It was good then, that Harry had grown to become a man that was not himself. At seventeen, during the very height of the war with Voldemort - when things should have ended but did not - Harry found himself retreated, as a Queen is retreated from the board when she is in danger.

But it was not as simple as in chess. The world was already tumbling then, and Harry suffered what was done to him as any man afraid for his life might suffer a complete change of identity. 

He was distraught at first. He knew, for instance, that the link to Voldemort was still there; as strong as ever – and that, if nothing else, would keep him moving. If he stood in front of Voldemort and looked him in the face, they would see each other for who they truly were, even though Harry now wore the face of another.

It had been taught to him by Tonks, this – for when Harry had admitted that his hair had grown back when Petunia cut it, it had finally been understood that Harry was a metamorphagus – born with an ability to transform that had never been taken advantage of.

But it was not easy for him to learn it, so they settled quite quickly for Harry’s first tries. It was a simple appearance, nothing that would gather unwanted attention if Harry walked past on the street. His black hair was made paler, so that it was almost pale brown. Unable to cut it short, or somehow tame it – due to the stubborn, magical nature of it; Harry had instead grown it out, so that he could tie it back. His eyes were brown now, thoroughly unnoticeable, and his nose was a little larger, with a clear change of direction at the bridge; a mockery of a nose, to remind him what he was fighting for. And to top it all off, he had removed both the scar and the glasses. If you walked past him on the street, you would assume that he was just another Muggle.

But even Muggles had reason to fear Voldemort – for the Dark Lord’s talons had reached out over the whole country as Harry Potter grew. The place which had been his world no longer existed; a new, terrible thing had sprung up from its scattered remains.

The world was feudal in all things, though in ways it much resembled the enforcements of the Germans during the Second World War. Lord Voldemort was the King of all the Dominion, and below him were his inner circle; these being Lords of the different parts of the Dominion. Below them were the lesser feudal lords, and below those were all the Muggles and Mudbloods – those of which were mostly extinguished now, after so long.

The Muggles themselves worked under their Lords; overworked and underfed. Voldemort lived in utter luxury; and the closest to him lived the very best.

All the Muggles who were fit to work needed work permits to pass between the habitable part of the city to the working sections, where they toiled in factories, or were shipped out to the fields to work for the day. Harry, naturally, had a permit of his own; but his own wasn’t real; he had stolen it from a dead man, and transfigured it to show his own face; taking the dead man’s name to keep him safer.

So now he was Emrys Monthaven. He worked in a factory producing clothes; and he suffered from a terrible cough, which he knew he would be able to recover from instantly with a second year Potion.

But there was no chance of getting Potion ingredients, and if he was the only person in the factory not suffering from it…well, he would have stood out like a sore thumb. Harry would rather suffer a bad cough than the Cruciatus Curse.

However, it wasn’t as simple as playing fair, and keeping out of their way. Wizards picked off Muggles as they chose; to play with, to simply kill; or even to use as lab rats. The very best of them were sold between wizards, almost like thoroughbred horses. In fact, Harry had heard now and then of breeding centres in which some of the worst of the wizards would force the best of their slaves to procreate, so that they might sell their children.

Harry thought it was disgusting. He had lived beside these people for so long, and yet he did not know that they had concealed such black hearts deep within them. And now there was nothing to stop them doing such horrible things. There were no true laws in Voldemort’s reign – and there was no Ministry any more. Even Muggle government had been destroyed.

Worst of all, walking down the street, one could never be sure if a group of Wizards wasn’t about to descend on broomstick to wreak havoc, or simply Apparate into the middle of the high street, giving heart attacks to all the Muggles closest to them. And if the heart attack wasn’t enough to kill them, then the Wizards would try to end their lives in other ways.

Even owning a work permit was not enough, unless you were high enough in the chain to be decorated in the house robes of your Lord. Those wearing house robes were often looked down on when they came into the habitable regions; hated by those less fortunate, while still being looked down on by their Lords. Conspirators loved them, though; and so they were often replaced, when a Lord became concerned that his Muggle toys were becoming less than loyal.

But even though he blended into Muggle kind so well, Harry was still a wizard. He held his own wand, and kept it with him at all times, though he did his best to avoid coming into contact with wizards at all – and if he could, he would escape them without using magic. Since the fire that he had all but been killed in – his last battle for the Order of the Phoenix – Harry had only used his magic sporadically. Once to change his appearance, in the fleeting safety of Hogwart’s castle, once to transfigure the image on his work permit, and once to stop himself dying when a Wizard carried him up in the air on his broom and threw him off.

The last was part of what Harry feared the most from the cruel overlords that ran his new life. The problem was that Harry wasn’t exactly unattractive, when considered as part of the crowd of Muggles. His disguise could not hide all of the man that he would have become without it. But he did not have to fear men who wished his company. What he had to fear the most were those wizards who hated that the Muggle men were more attractive than them, and killed them out of spite. Of course, this certainly didn’t make it easier for the breeders – and the more attractive men who were murdered, the less they had to choose from; so that now they were in a flurry of stockpiling males, so they would at least have some prime specimens to choose from.

Right now, Harry feared those Wizards more than any of the others. He thought that he could deal with being killed in a heartbeat – but the idea that he might be taken away somewhere to be groomed like a housecat, and locked away for the soul purpose of making babies…

Settled on the floor in the cramped room with the twelve other people he shared it with, Harry carefully sank his hand into his pocket to tear a mouthful of stale bread from the quarter loaf he had bought four days ago. There was very little of it left now, and it had been stale when he bought it; but now it was moulding too. 

He didn’t mind; Harry was sure that the mould in the bread was the least likely of the possible things that could kill him at the moment.  
He was a little more afraid of the bruiser who had decided to move into this room tonight; a big man who, although he appeared to have been worked until his back had broken, still had big hands and big muscles. And judging by the shifty look in his eyes, the hawk eyed way he scanned everyone to see if they had anything he could steal, Harry judged that he was not used to starving; preferring to take his food from others to prevent his own discomfort.

Sitting by the door was a small family, a woman on her own, tired from hard work, a boy child on her knee, and a girl of no more than ten sitting with her knees up beside her, half asleep in the fatigue of hunger. The mother carefully took out a piece of stale bread barely bigger than Harry’s own remaining piece, breaking it into smaller pieces, while the bruiser looked on.

“I know what you’re thinking, Emrys, but you can’t take that guy on, even for the common good.” That was the voice of Harry’s friend, a young woman by the name of Charmille, with a long scar down the length of her face. She had been turned from a wizard household – a one time pleasure girl. An accident had seen her turned out on the street, even though Harry was sure that if the wizard had wanted to keep her, he could have easily stopped the wound from scarring.

She had an uncommonly bleak outlook on life, therefore, and often Harry was tempted to repair her face, so that she might go back to the slightly better life of a wizarding household; for often she would idolise that being a slave in a warm house was preferable to sleeping on the floor of a tiny room with thirteen or fourteen people who hadn’t had a bath in two years. It was too dangerous though; not only for her, but for him too. Beyond the fear of having his magic found out; there was the idea that should the people in the habitation district know that he was a wizard, they would either rise up against him and kill him; or ask him to go on a foolish errand to ‘free Mugglekind’, which would most certainly get him, and the whole lot of them killed.

Harry sat back as Charmille had suggested, seething as he watched the big bruiser climb clumsily to his feet and then lollop across the tiny space towards the family. He stood over the woman and her children, a great menacing shadow, and his voice was soft and threatening. The woman seemed disinclined to donate her food to the intimidating figure, and so the great oaf picked her up by the throat, knocking her child off her lap in the process, and shoved her bodily against the wall.

He was on his feet before Charmille could stop him, moving across the room with a battlefield grace that for a few moments he had perhaps forgotten that he possessed. His languid frame slid between the aggressor and his captor like water, and then hardened, bracing himself against the wall and thrusting his shoulders back so that the large man was knocked away. Harry spun into the move, stopped to face the larger man, and then help his ground obstinately. 

“What do you think you’re doing you little bastard? Get out of my way now,” growled the bully, his tiny eyes glittering with fury.

“We shouldn’t be fighting each other.” Harry’s voice was soft, but cold, like fresh, powdered snow. If it hardened, it would be lethal.  
The bully leered, straightening his shoulders to make himself look even bigger than he was. Harry didn’t flinch; he, after all, had sized down Lord Voldemort himself. He had asked for death countless times. This man was child’s play, even without his wand. 

“And just what do you know about fighting, little man?”

“We all learn to defend ourselves in different ways in light of war,” Harry replied; still not moving, presenting himself like an impenetrable wall.

The bully didn’t announce his movements, but Harry was ready for him, and his reaction was almost pre-cognition. He swayed in the direction that the fist was going, giving himself long enough to duck beneath it and then, from his crouched position, threw himself upwards and forwards, cracking the chin of his aggressor with the hardest part of his head and knocking him backwards to the ground. He stopped himself falling after, placing one foot against the floor ahead of him, and then dropping into it, so that he ended in a ready crouch; fingertips touching the floor.

When the bully didn’t move, he rose back to his feet, and then turned back to the woman he had just protected. He fished the dry bread from his own pocket and pressed it firmly into her hand. She looked up to him, her eyes wet with tears, and he smiled softly. “Eat well; tonight at least,” he said softly. “You need it more than I do, I think.”

She was too stunned by his kindness to actually respond to him, and Harry moved away from the body on the ground, which two people were already patting down to look for stray possessions that they might steal.

Harry sank down against his wall beside Charmille, who was less than speechless. “You thought that was damned clever, didn’t you. He’ll be up to get you, though.”

Amused, Harry lifted his knees to his chest and let his head drop back. “Yes…I’m sure he will be up to get me,” he answered. “And I’m sure I’ll answer for my actions, because I’ll be damned if he didn’t.”

Charmille didn’t laugh, but Harry thought for a moment that he’d at least heard her snort in response to that.

When the light dimmed outside the broken window, Harry let down his defences, allowing himself to go to sleep; even to the sound of a baby cry somewhere in the building. He was so tired he could have slept through anything, he thought – even a Cruciatus curse from Lord Voldemort himself.

At the very faintest touch of sunlight in the morning, Harry’s eyelids flew open, and he immediately jumped to his feet, his eyes revolving in both directions, checking his perimeter. There was no danger; nothing but sleeping people, and groaning bodies, as they too found the sunlight waking them.

Harry first touched his chest, checking that the wooden shaft of his wand was still strapped carefully to the inside of his shirt, and when he was sure it was his wand and not a replacement he finally allowed himself to relax a little. He sank back down off his feet, at least.

No more than seven minutes later the bell rang, and Harry roused Charmille with a gentle nudge to her side. “It’s time to go,” he said softly, bringing his hands to her sides and heaving her up to her feet. “Come,” he said softly, “We don’t want to be the last ones through the styles, or we’ll be dead by lunchtime.”

“What’s lunchtime?” Charmille murmured, drowsily, balancing her weight beneath her waking body and looking up at Harry with condescending, but sleepy eyes.

“It’s the time that the wizards march down the aisles, stuffing their faces while we watch,” Harry answered, with a sad smile, and he began to pull her towards the door, which was the direction that all the other workers were travelling in.

Dropping her head, Charmille replied, “Maybe I want to die. I feel like I’m dying now. Don’t they ever get tired?”

Harry laughed; a dry sound that made a few of the workers around him jump away in fear. “I’m sure they get tired when they get given too much homework to do,” he answered, wistfully.

Charmille shook her head in dismay at how amused Harry seemed to be with his words. But she allowed for him a certain amount of insanity that she did not apply to others, because at least Harry could still find humour in these dry times, and Charmille knew how useful an asset that could be.

Outside, the Muggle crowd was keeping together for safety. Harry watched the streams of sleep deprived people as they came out of their mass dormitories and merged in the street into a flowing river of people headed for the barbed turnstiles that separated the habitation district from the factories.

Someone sidled up to Harry in the street; merging with the crowd and moving through it seamlessly. He came to Harry’s side and fell into step to speak to him.

“They burned down a factory in Norfolk – taking the whole work force with it.”

“They didn’t…” Harry replied, stunned, lifting his eyes to look up at the newcomer.

The man looked sad, “Decided that they were superfluous, so they made a spectacle of them burning to death.”

Harry shook his head slowly. When this had first begun he had taken every murder of a Muggle on his own head. Voldemort was a cruel man, and often Harry watched the murder in his dreams as though it was performed by his own hand. 

By the time Voldemort got to the point of destroying Hogsmeade, Harry had learned Occlumency in desperation. It had been difficult, considering that his mind had been battered into submission; but he found that being so very tired made forgetting everything that much easier to do.

So many had died now, that only deaths in numbers seemed to affect him at all; as every man, woman or child that lost their lives was merely a petal in Kew Gardens.

“What about the werewolf hunts? You told me they were having trouble…”

“They were…one of the Kept got his jaws on his trainer and turned him. They settled that one though; They put both the werewolves in the same pen, jumped up on Agressives and let them fight it out between them.”

Harry went tense. The werewolf hunts were one of the Dominion’s games. They captured werewolves – sometimes infected new toys with werewolf blood – and they set them on captured Muggles – letting the wolf hunt down and eat it’s prey, so that when the man rose the next morning, he would remember just what it was he had done. It was a novel, cruel torture. Worst of all, Harry knew that Remus himself was one of the Kept.

“Who won?” Harry asked softly.

“Oh, the Kept, of course! A fully grown werewolf against a newborn pup? The newborn didn’t even stand a chance.”

Letting a sigh of relief, Harry let himself separate from the informer, drifting through the crowd diagonally with Charmille. It felt safer to move diagonally, and Harry had found that since the fall of Hogwarts his fragile existence only stayed intact because of unbalanced paranoia.

In essence, watching his back at every moment and always being afraid of people – even those he knew well – had kept him alive and at least free, if little else. He was a very secretive person, and he refused outright to let anyone know of any abilities he had beyond being a particularly gifted embroiderer.

Harry, having somewhat of an understanding in the use of magic, could easily grip the way that the different threads held different types of magic. Some were thin, going invisible when you worked them in, but catching the light if they were moved just so. Some were so black that your eye sank into them. 

He had a sharp eye too, from playing Quidditch for all those years, and it was essential in crafting the careful, invisible patterns in the fabric – so that when the wizard that wore it turned just so, the intricate phoenix that Harry had painstakingly worked into the tail of the fabric glittered, appearing fleetingly.

Some time ago, Harry had been the one who flittered in and out of shops, looking at robes just like the ones that he now crafted for no pay, and meagre food. He remembered just how expensive the fabrics were, let alone the finished robes. That was perhaps the worst part of it. No one should have such luxury if it required slave labour. They should pay for that privilege, and the people who crafted such things should be thanked with the money they deserved for their craft.

But Harry no longer felt as though he could fight this new society. Voldemort was untouchable, rather than a palpable presence that he could not ignore. Harry knew that the Dark Lord himself did not believe that Harry Potter was dead, even though his death had been well played out. 

What if Snape had somehow found out the rest of the prophecy? It would point out quite clearly to Voldemort that Harry ought not to be dead. Harry’s anger flared instinctively on the thought of Snape. Charmille, beside him, felt him tense and pulled away just a little bit. Harry looked at her apologetically, before allowing his thoughts to wander once more.

After all, he wasn’t entirely sure that Voldemort needed to know that Harry was alive. He personally wouldn’t put it past Voldemort to know the truth instinctively.

Their scars, after all, still connected them, in a way. If Harry was very careful, he could still see what Voldemort was doing, if he liked. But he did not want to see, so Voldemort did not get any night time visits. 

But it was not only that that worried him. It was the fact that Voldemort’s presence still affected him in the same way. Excruciating pain blinded him when the Dark Lord was present – it was only by concentrating on not dying that Harry had ever been able to survive a direct battle with Lord Voldemort.

But Harry still remembered the mind shattering pain of being touched by Voldemort himself. He shuddered merely at the memory of it. He did not much want to come across that pain again, and he did not want to willingly submit himself to the pain and panicking battle sense that prevailed when he was forced to duel with the Dark Lord. 

But if he didn’t do anything about it – nobody would. And the Muggles would be in this state of slavery forever. Harry held his breath, and looked around him at the tired and unhappy faces, and then, ever so softly, he spoke to Charmille, as he often did when he was looking for a moral boost – encouragement.

“If you had a chance in hell of ending it,” he said softly, “But you had to kill yourself to do it, you’d try to end it, wouldn’t you, Char?”  
Charmille’s answer was instantaneous, as though she thought about it all the time, “I would definitely try,” she answered, her tone abrupt. There was no question, apparently, no other possible answer that could have been given to such a question; and Harry hadn’t even suggested any odds. Harry suspected this was because Charmille would have done it, even if she only had a one in a million chance of winning.

He also supposed that his own chances were an awful lot less pleasant in ratio than that.

Harry lifted his head slowly as the crowd began to thicken in front of them, looking at the turnstiles as they loomed before them. He reached into his shirt and slid his identity card from the same strap that held his wand. He shook it out, for it was still warm with heart heat. He lifted his hand up, looking down into the picture of his new face, silently.

Brown eyes that were not his own stared up at him, and Harry felt another stab of hatred – not at the world, but at himself, what he had become – who he had become. Those advising adults had forced him to become a coward against his Gryffindor sensibilities – and this knowledge, more than anything else, made Harry hate himself all the more.

He did not want to hide. He wanted to be fighting; wanted desperately to have been able to protect Hermione from wizarding slavery, to have prevented Remus becoming one of the Kept, and Tonks from being slaughtered by her own fiancée. He wanted to have been able to get revenge for Dumbledore’s death – for Sirius’.  
But if he abandoned all pretence now, it would have all been for nothing – and Harry knew better than to make these deaths and sacrifices have been in vain.

With another soft sigh he turned the card back over; ready to hand it to the man at the turnstile as he passed.

There was a deafening crack, like a car backfire, and then a horrible scream pierced the air somewhere to Harry’s right in the crowd, and the throng of people moved back, pushing everyone else further away as the people at the front tried to get back from whomsoever had screamed. From the amount that he was pushed, Harry suspected that he couldn’t be more than five meters from where the incident had occurred. 

Desperately, he wanted to know what it was, but if he moved towards the sound, he would be noticed doing so - aberrant behaviour had never been trusted – so Harry let himself be moved back with the rest of the crowd.

Another crack made it quite clear that whoever had just apparated in, had apparated out once he’d had his bit of fun.

There was some muttering through the crowd, and Harry caught the words “just appeared” and “killed her”.

The crowd was brought to attention, however, by one of the controllers at the turnstile booming out to them. “Get back in line! Leave that body alone.”

And so, Harry let himself be swivelled back towards the turnstile again, and realised, somewhat bewildered, that he was clutching Charmille’s hand very tightly, so that the both of them were suffering from bad circulation. His other hand was pressed against his chest, fingers lingering between his buttonholes, as though ready to lunge for his wand. And his heart was beating triple time.

If it had been Charmille, Harry knew, the murderer would have been dead before he could lift his wand.

Harry let go slowly, and patted the top of her hand ever so gently, before letting himself be pulled forwards through the last few meters, unable to keep sight of her any more in the crush of bodies – and knowing full well that she was going to another factory when she got to the other side.

He was struck by a violent coughing fit as he reached the barrier, which made the man behind it glare at him, as though suspecting him of something – but seeing what his job was on his card, he waved ‘Emrys’ through, letting him go on his way.

And so Harry was in the slightly safer part of town, the working district – and he had an entire day’s embroidery to look forward to on an empty stomach, for he had had nothing to eat, having given away his mouldy bread to the needy family last night.

But hunger was not something that Harry was new to. He wished he knew just how long he’d been away from the wizarding world, surviving on the same meagre rations that supported the rest of the Muggle population.

Hunger, Harry could deal with. Wizards, he could not. He avoided them as best he could, which was not a very easy thing to do. He did not want to find himself in such a position as that they found his wand, or else took him into private possession, and made him wear house robes.

Harry’s factory wasn’t too far into the working district, and he slipped off the main street safely enough, moving with the stragglers down through to the entrance to the building that loomed above him. It was simple brick and mortar, with a great metal roof arching across the top – no more than a warehouse really. But this was where Harry wasted his life away.

He entered with a glance around at everyone within. There was an off air of electricity in the air today, something thoroughly ominous that had the hair standing up on the back of Harry’s neck almost immediately. Something wasn’t right, and when things weren’t right, insecurity was rife.

It was wrong to feel tense, Harry knew it would make him susceptible to whatever was going to happen and possible cause utter devastation on his behalf, if he so much as put a toe out of line in this situation. Cautiously he made his way through the lines of sewers readying their machines for the day, manually setting their bobbins in place, and working the thread into place.

Harry did not work down here, on the main floor. He worked upstairs, where a great balcony protruded over the floor below. That was where the very best employees worked, sewing intricate patterns, sequins, and magical materials into the cloth that was so worked below.

Making his way to the metal stairs that led to the balcony level, Harry couldn’t help but overhear snippets of whispered conversation from the people he passed. Word was spreading quickly, and it set a stone of cold dread in his heart to hear what the people were saying.

“Martina says that he Master’s been spending too much money…” Harry heard at one machine, from a crouching Muggle pretending to be checking the cables as she whispered hurriedly to the woman beside her.

From a man further down, he heard, “Got to cut down his work force.”

And then, from someone else further down the line: “Making inspections; choosing those who’re going to go.”

Cut down the work force?! Fear gripped Harry. Would they be killed? Would they be sold?

The wand against his chest felt heavier now, sturdy where it was, and he tried to reassure himself. If someone did try to kill him he’d be ready for them.

But surely he could not stand back and watch as the Master of the factory murdered people around him. Could he? 

Harry questioned himself as he rose the stairs, and the same echoing voice came in his head, twisted, but still recognisable for who it belonged to. ‘Coward.’

Shuddering, Harry made his way to his own station and sank down silently on the hard floor where he worked. He pulled a new robe to his chest, a needle, and some thread that glinted red in the dim light if Harry turned it the right way, and he sank down silently into the thin, unhappy cushion, his shoulder acheing as he eased onto it and lifted both hands to work. 

It had been a necessary thing. Harry could have worked leant over, in a position that was immediately much more comfortable, but would eventually cause such stress against the back that he would be killed for it. Rather than suffer that, he decided that pain to his shoulders was lesser, and he changed between them during the day – though he favoured his left arm, since it was not his wand arm, and therefore less important to keep in working order.

But lying on a hard stone floor every day was no good to anyone – least of all someone who was so thin that it was their very bones that supported their body on the ground, not cushioned by flesh.

Harry’s fingers worked over the head of the Chinese Fireball that he had already etched into the fabric. He could remember the great dragon rearing up, and the wizards coming forwards to stun it – Charlie Weasley, now dead, happily telling them about the dragons in the dark, not knowing that Harry was there. And then Krum – he could imagine Krum fighting the dragon – the Conjunctivitus curse blasted right between it’s eyes, and the dragon’s wild flailing in response to being blind.

He was reminded how noble the dragons seemed to him to be, and how protective, and as his hands embroidered, it came out in the image, the great dragon with it’s proud and noble head lifted, it’s neck arched, balanced neatly on it’s toes, with tail long and lifted off the ground. Harry smiled when he was done, and he took up some green thread and ever so carefully etched his own artist’s hallmark into the bottom right corner of the cloak, as he did with every piece that he did; a green eye, with a gold lightning bolt through it.

Harry knew that it would be recognised by anyone who looked at it – at least, the symbolism would be. But it appeared that nobody had looked at it. And if they had, they would hopefully have only thought that the man who used it did so by accident, or that he had perhaps heard somehow the legend of Harry Potter.

His work done quickly for use of the magic needle that Harry had been supplied with, Harry went onto the next piece, folding the first set of robes and setting them aside.

This one was an order – house robes which needed the insignia of the house inscribed onto the chest in a mockery of Hogwarts’ robes. Harry worked on these in silence, he had most of them done when fleeting word came up the stairs that the inspection had begun, and that two people had already been taken out of the ranks and sent to wait in the Master’s office.

Harry turned attentively back to his work, determined to finish it, and get onto a new piece of art before the Master’s inspection arrived on the balcony.

With the robes finally done; dark green, with snakes coiled around the collar and sleeves, and with an insignia of no less than a crowned serpent, coiled around a dagger – and of course, Harry’s personal insignia inscribed on the hem of the robes, where it would never be noticed – he found himself hurrying to get back to the normal robes – choosing a black set to work on next.

Taking silver thread, he nursed in the outline of a unicorn, standing proud, tail lifted, and mane streaming in the wind, looking ready to fight – beautiful and strong. He was beginning to work on the details when his world tilted neatly upside down. Not literally, of course, but it may as well.

The Master had arrived on the balcony – a balding wizard with long, cruel fingers ending in sharp fingernails, curled and hard like hag’s claws. His eyes were narrow and sickly looking, and there was a definite sign of stress in his features. Yes, it was definitely likely that this man was running low on money – gambling it away, most likely.

Harry did not like him. He had seen him several times before, and each time had been blown down by the feeling of revulsion he felt for a man he had never met before. It made him wonder just how furious he might be if he was to come face to face with one of the wizards he had known. Avery, Lestrange, Snape, Malfoy… And still there was that niggling doubt on his mind at the memory of Malfoy’s name. And why? Why did Snape still not add up? There was something strange about him even now, years after Dumbledore’s death. But Harry did not know if he would ever see Snape again – he would never have a chance to ask him.  
Hand paused over the unicorn, Harry was still as though he had been struck by a rather well placed Impedimenta. If it was not for the fact that his fingers had gone white holding tightly to the needle, noone would have known that that was not the case. For Harry’s eyes had met the Master’s – and he found himself unable to avert his gaze.

The inspection team came right to him, stopped above him and peered down at his work. The Master, averting his gaze from Harry finally, moved to the stack of robes and lifted up one of the dark green sets of robes, turning them so that the light met them.  
“Aah. Severus will be glad that his order is finally completed.”

If Harry had been expecting anything, then that particular comment hadn’t been it... So he was not exactly prepared to be controlling his emotions in any way. He shot to his feet as though he had just been stung by a bee, and he snatched the robed from the wizard’s hands, and lifted them up. “No…” he found himself saying, under his breath. He could see it now – Prince of the snakes – the secret dagger.

He shuddered and thrust the robes back into the stunned wizard’s hands, unable to control his tongue. “If I’d known that was who they were for, I’d have refused to do them.”

Harry expected the wizard to be angry – he expected to die on the spot, but instead the wizard only laughed. “Yes,” he said, “A lot of us feel that way too.”

Blinking stupidly, Harry could not help the gormless expression that now sank his features. “Wh-what?”

“Severus Snape was as poor as a church mouse until he took out Dumbledore. Voldemort gave him riches beyond his wildest dreams, whilst some of us have to struggle to make ends meet.”  
Harry had to control his temper then. The Muggles survived on a handful of bread a week; he would hardly call running a factory, and eating a full meal morning, noon and night ‘struggling to make ends meet’.

“Now then,” said the Master, looking down at Harry over his long nose. “What’s your name?”

“Emrys Monthaven, Sir.”

The wizard nodded to himself, and took out the black robe from the bottom of the pile, lifting it up to the light. The red dragon glittered, handsome and noble at the bottom of the robes, and the old wizard smiled tiredly. “This is very beautiful work.”

A surge of pride and hope filled Harry then. Perhaps he would not get killed if he was enough of an asset.

But what the wizard said next killed Harry’s hope with one particularly vicious blow. “I should be able to fetch a good price for you. It might save me having to lose too many of my workers. Stand up then, Monthaven.”

Harry moved to his feet, so shellshocked that he could do nothing but do what he was told. He was going to be sold. He was going away, and he would never see Charmille again. He was going to another Master – and who knew what they would be like, or what Harry would have to do.

His world was spinning – and yet Harry allowed himself to be taken from the room, half supported by the guard who might have otherwise had to restrain him. What was happening to his well ordered life? He felt ill now, and dizzy, and he dropped to his knees when he found himself in the Master’s office.

He had never been in here before – and if he had ever suspected that he’d be visiting here again, he may well have had a look around. But right now, he could feel no reason to do so – his curiosity extinguished for perhaps the first time in his life.

The black robes that he had embroidered were placed in front of him in a neat pile, and Harry looked down at them silently, seeing the dragon appearing and disappearing in the flickering fire light – for even here there was a fire burning in the grate – as it was in every wizard home Harry had ever been in. And yet, both Sirius and Molly had had boilers. Why then, had the idea of radiators never occurred to them, he wondered?

A flutter of something in the corner of his eyes finally caught his attention, and he looked up to see a golden snitch trapped inside a glass jar. It was whizzing around in circles very fast – and Harry watched it, distracted by its continuing efforts to escape. Harry couldn’t help but feel a little bit like the snitch at the moment.

“You’ll do a little more work on those robes while you wait, I think,” said a voice above Harry. One of the wizard’s servants, obviously, dressed in house robes. He set Harry’s embroidery box down beside him, and Harry took the needle up shakily, turning it over in his hand.

But this was something he could do – and it would distract him just enough to keep his mind off the terrible things that would inevitably be happening to him.

Harry had the time to stitch yet more things into these black robes. Two more dragons joined the first along the bottom, the Welsh Green, and the Swedish Shortsnout.

In pitch black thread, Harry carefully began to pick out his Hungarian Horntail across the front – the most menacing and beautiful of all of them, and the largest, for he carefully made sure that the image spread out over all the front of the gown. 

The Horntail was lifted up on its hind feet, black leathery wings stretched out to keep it balanced as it lunged up into the air with a massive but soundless and immobile roar.

Harry had just finished stitching silver into the dragon’s teeth and claws when the Master returned, looking quietly at him, expectantly. He chased the other two Muggles that Harry had been waiting with away with his wand, then approached Harry once more.

“Very good,” he said, apparently in regards to the robes, although now his voice sounded impatient. “I think you should change into those robes now.”

He certainly looked angry. Harry suspected he knew why. To find such talent in his midst only to have to send it away must be a terrible thing. But Harry was feeling sickness rising in his stomach. He didn’t want to go. But to take on this wizard now…? It would ruin his cover – and for what? Because he was too much of a…  
‘Coward.’

Harry set his jaw and stood up slowly, keeping his eyes tuned from the man. He slipped the beautiful robes up over his shoulders, feeling the fabric cooling his body in the incessant warmth of the firelit room.

“Thank you, Master,” he said, subserviently – and another rush of rage filled him at having stooped so low as to say that.

“No need for that,” said the wizard, shaking his head. “The robes are to make you sell for a higher price. I wasn’t lying when I saw that they were splendid. But how you quite managed the Chinese Fireball so very accurately, I have no idea.”

“I just…let them come from my mind,” he said, quickly, another wave of fear threatening him. He was such a fool to have drawn them so correctly.

The wizard didn’t seem to care – he waved his hand to one side dismissively. “Right…I shall take you down to the auction house myself; else we won’t get there in time. I’ll just speak to Lewis to let him know that we’re on the way…”

Harry, dumbstruck, could only stare vaguely at the wizard as he went over to the fire, letting the words sink in. He was going to an auction house… The Master tossed a handful of floo powder into the flames from the flask at his belt, then pushed his enormous head into the now green flames – and a few moments later leaned back out, smiling to himself with an evil look that Harry hated immensely.


	2. Eight Hundred Gold Galleons

  
Author's notes: Living incognito as a Muggle, Harry Potter a.k.a. Emrys Monthaven lives under Voldemort's rule. One day his life goes spiralling out of control. Will he be able to keep his identity secret? And can he really stand watching the world he knew being destroyed?  


* * *

Chapter 2 

It could have been no later than ten o’clock; a time by which Harry might normally have embroidered some fifty robes. By this time his stomach would be complaining already of hunger, his throat dry from lack of water. 

Today, ten o’clock was when Harry found himself taken from his workplace and turned, not in the direction of the stiles, but to go further towards the places where the general wizarding population came.

Harry suspected that he would be going to a small local sale. The town he was in was not London but Manchester, a place that was cold without much effort, and without quite as great a population as the English capital. The auctions were smaller here – not excessively small, but small enough. Trade in Muggles was continued, and yet not practised perhaps as much as it could have been.

But Harry’s suspicions – hopes, even – were crushed painfully when he saw the carriage waiting for him. It was little more than a cage with wheels, and Harry instantly tugged back to try and get free, an irrational fear overwhelming him at the knowledge that he would be leaving, and he would not be coming back.

Worse; this portable jail cell could mean only one thing. He would be going to the great sales in London – where the populace of the wizarding world came to buy the best slaves. A place that Lord Voldemort himself had been said to frequent.

A wand in his lower back and the evil looking wizard’s clutch on his collar succeeded in reminding him that he was currently in custody. He could have escaped any second he wanted, he told himself, but he did not want to be a fugitive so soon.

He calmed himself only by a sharp reminder that he would be in a much position to strike out at the wizards who controlled this new terrible world if he let himself first be taken into London; into their stronghold. And with this excuse blinding him, he allowed himself to be swept up into the portable cage, and locked inside.

The wizard himself mounted the front of the carriage beside the driver, and the beautiful black horses that pulled it turned in a long circle, so as to point down the empty street. They were charged into a gallop, and as they came to full speed, which Harry was sure would surely send the metal cage flying off in one direction off the cobbles, the wizard cast a levitation charm that brought the horses, carriage and all up into the air, clearing the buildings neatly.

The horses screamed in terror, although this had obviously happened to them before. The driver kept them galloping, though their hooves did not strike anything, nor cause friction, somehow it still caused the carriage to fly forwards. Harry wondered what would happen if the horses stopped moving.

The carriage flew through the English air, Harry suspected, at some speed similar to that at which Thestrals could move. If it were not for his cage, Harry was sure he would feel the thrill of flight – the wind ruffling his hair, the horses’ hooves dashing away the low clouds as they galloped over them… But Harry could feel no pleasure in his confinement; only an empty feeling at his own separation from the wizarding world – from Quidditch, Thestrals and airborne carriages.

Soon they were approaching London, a great grey mass of buildings – with a slither of blue through the centre where the Thames ran. There were several other carriages within sight now – two taking off, two landing, as theirs was. Harry shuddered as they began their descent, but at least there was no sudden tilt. The horses continued to gallop forwards as their height decreased.

And then they hit the ground with a clash of hooves on concrete, and the horses drew to a trot, and then slowed into a walk, turning the corner onto Oxford Street and joining a good few more carriages there.

Harry could see wizards out for their shopping, perusing through windows and walking the length of the long street. Another burn of rage filled Harry now, but at least none of the wizards were paying attention to the passing of his caged carriage.

In fact, no-one noticed him as the horses clattered noisily up the street, hooves drumming a steady beat on the tarred surface of the road, so Harry found himself free to look around for as long as they were moving up the street. In the shop windows, which so long ago it seemed had held the height of Muggle fashion, the cafes which had held Muggle foodstuffs, there were now Wizarding robes and Wizard food.

Harry found himself all the angrier the more he saw. Muggle culture had been crushed like beetles’ eyes, and replaced with an excess of wizards. Where they had all come from, Harry was not entirely sure, for surely there had not been so many wizards in the world that this kind of magnitude could be sustained?

His fingers were tight on the bars, white with the intensity of his grip, and he was pressing his face close to the bars as though he would like nothing better than to leap between them and throttle the nearest wizard with his bare hands.

Harry had not quite realised how angry he was, but as they finally turned off the street, he realised almost immediately how murderous he had become in those few seconds, and that fear, if nothing else, quieted him. 

He had known for a while just what a danger it was that in hating Voldemort, he might inadvertently follow in his footsteps. Voldemort was lurking in his soul, filling all the dark places that Harry dared not venture into. It was that part of Harry that had used Crucio on Bellatrix Lestrange that first time – that part of Harry that had wanted to strike out at Dumbledore, dig non-existent fangs into ageing flesh…

Taking a shuddering breath, Harry let himself slide down from the bars, slumping on the bottom of the cage and trying to get a grip of himself. ‘You are Harry James Potter, named for the father you resemble, and with your mother’s eyes. Avada Kedavra eyes. Voldemort killed your parents. Voldemort was responsible for this world. You must kill him, but you must not become like him.’  
It always started like this, Harry desperately reminding himself what his morals were, what his ambitions were, reminding himself of the losses so far.

He would not lose face, and he would strike only when the time was right. He would not submit. He was a Gryffindor, brave in the face of war – but he was Slytherin, willing to wait until everything was perfect first.

If he didn’t tell himself this mantra, he was sure he would forget – he would kill the next wizard who stepped in front of him, and perhaps he would kill several more too, but he would never succeed in freeing the world of it’s reign of terror – he would be annihilated beforehand – or worse, taught to kill for Voldemort, as Remus had been.

They were passing between close buildings now, and Harry was aware that they were slipping slowly into the theatre district.  
Not even wizards could make full use of all the buildings in London – but they were trying very hard to do so. Several of the theatres, however, were now being used as auction houses. They could hold enough people, had a prominent stage, and were host to a catacomb of backrooms that could hold all of the merchandise.

Harry’s cage drew to a stop outside the theatre, rocking back once as the horses stopped – and the carriage continued trying to move before it finally stopped.

There were more carriages here – two or three caged affairs which were also in the process of disembarking their loads. Three Muggles, by what Harry could tell. One of them was obviously in the same position as him – they were looking up at the theatre in awed fear. Another was fighting the guards who were trying to take him from his cage, insisting that he did not want to be sold again – and a third was a woman, dressed in furs, with long legs and large, hazelnut shaped eyes. The last was stepping out of the caged carriage with dignity, and Harry supposed that she was used to these affairs.

There was a shout as the second man tore free of the guards and then, “Stupefy.”

The first man gave a shocked cry and cowered against his carriage as the second fell to the floor some inches from the carriage’s wheels.

Harry’s hand had flown for his chest at the sound of the spell, and he had jumped across the cage as though to avoid the blast. But now he was looking around, glad that nobody had been looking in his direction, and he let his hands drop - still shaking - to his sides.

The woman looked disdainfully at the stupefied man as she passed him, and walked ahead of her guard into the theatre. Mobilicorpus carried the second man into the theatre, and the first man was prodded cowering in behind him.

Finally a pair of guards approached Harry’s cage, where he was standing alert and ready to fight, hands open at his sides.

He didn’t fight though. By this time he had control of himself and he merely stepped out of the carriage, lifting his head up as he went. His robes swirled around him as he stepped down from the cage and headed towards the doors of the great theatre. ‘Not yet,’ he told himself, stubbornly.

The guards allowed him to pass, and one fell into step behind him, following him into the building. His Master followed, but he did not continue with Harry all the way. Before Harry realised the old wizard had gone, leaving him in the guard’s care.

They travelled through the wide well lit entrance hall, complete with sparkling chandelier, climbed a set of stairs that were covered with rich green carpet and came into a long hallway of green and silver, lined with cages down the whole length of it on both sides. Most certainly it was a gallery – but it was lined with slaves of every kind, and Harry shuddered as they passed several Muggles who were most certainly in the realm of slavery that Harry would rather avoid.

They stopped at a cage some distance along, where the door was wide open, and the inside was empty. Harry stepped within. Harry was prodded within at the end of the guard’s wand, and Harry lowered his eyes before obeying, stepping inside the cage, whose door clanged; shut behind him. 

“Colloportus!” The spell locked the door, and Harry found himself standing, feeling quite foolish in the small space, because he had walked so willingly into it.

The halls were quite quiet, Harry supposed – beyond the howling and crying of some of the occupants of the cages. He knew they would be louder later, when the wizards began to arrive, and speak amongst themselves.

Harry began to pace, but in fifteen minutes he had already made himself well acquainted with his confinement, and he resignedly slumped on the floor and watched more Muggles being brought through the corridor to take their places in cages further down. At one point a Muggle slave passed carrying lot numbers, which she hung on the doors. Harry could not read his number, naturally. But if he squinted he could just about make out three digits, which suggested he was at least not going to be an early lot.

It was some hours later that things began to liven up a little. The velvet curtains that had let in light all day were pulled closed, and bright lights were lit in the top of the cages, spotlighting the slaves within. The lights were very hot, and Harry had to squint to see out into the dark corridor beyond his bars each time he heard someone passing.

The young Muggle woman from earlier came by, filling up the water dispensers that were attached to each cage. Harry hadn’t noticed them at first, but when he saw them, he was reminded just how thirsty he was – and no matter the bruise to his pride that was licking the ball bearing in a tube to get a meagre supply of water.

It wasn’t as though Harry had expected to like this experience, after all.

He found he was far too hot to pace any more, so he sat down in the centre of his spotlight, feeling exhausted and hungry, and very, very hot.

It was some ten minutes into his languishing that the wizards began to appear – at which point the perpetrator of the auction began to bustle up and down the aisles, hexing anyone who wasn’t standing up. After a stinging hex to his wrist, Harry found himself quickly on his feet, standing defiant in the bright light, and squinting again to try and catch glimpses of the wizards outside his cage.

Often groups would go past talking amongst themselves, and otherwise paying very little attention to the slaves in their cages. Sometimes there would be groups of buyers, or a group who were offering advice to their friend as they peered into each of the cages in turn. There were wizards with their families, choosing a new servant or minder for their child, wizards on their own, looking for a slave to order around – or worse…

Harry glowered at those who came close enough to the cage to make eye contact with him. He did not recognise most of them, but he was sure that now and again in the darkness he depicted features he recognised.

“He’s a pretty one,” Harry heard a wizard in dark hair saying to his friend as he stood outside Harry’s cage. Harry knew he was being watched, but he could not see the man’s face, and it made him more nervous than he already was. The friend’s silhouette moved forwards, and he bowed his head, reading the card that Harry had thought held only his number.

“It says he’s an embroiderer,” said the friend, with a soft laugh.  
The wizard moved forwards, and the whites of his eyes reflected Harry, and then came into focus. His face was chiselled in shadow, seeming even gaunter in the contrasting light. “He’s never been broken to our trade, then, had he?”

Harry tried not to be afraid, but it was difficult. He could tell what trade they meant, and what they had in mind, if Harry was a reasonable price. He found himself wanting to back out of the light, but he was fighting his courage to do such a thing. Was he going to let them cow him? No… Instead, he tried to pretend he wasn’t hearing them speaking about him – and he just stared forwards, past those eyes as though they were not burning into him.

“Defiant, isn’t he?” said the friend, from the shadows.

“Yes,” breathed the other man, still trying to catch Harry’s faraway gaze. “I’d like to break this one. Jot down his number…”

There was the scratch of a quill, and the two wizards disappeared, leaving Harry to breathe easy again. He felt as though he’d just run a race – his heart was beating frantically in his chest, and his breath was coming in shallow gasps.

More movement outside the cage did not interest him, so he merely kept his eyes turned down. However, a few seconds later, the woman spoke. “An embroiderer…? Why, that is a skill. Look at that thread work, Matthieu.”

Harry stirred, looking up at the woman outside the cage, who was close to the bars, so that she could peer through at Harry’s robes. Oh, this was a much better future… Harry could almost show off for these two. 

He turned, slowly, so that they could see the other dragons embroidered into his robes, and then looked back up at them, smiling hopefully, disarmingly.

“Handsome needlework,” came the rumble from the witch’s husband. “If he’s not too expensive, Lysandra…”

“I know, I know…” bustled his wife. “I’ve got his number. Shall we?”

The two of them hurried away, and Harry lifted his eyes, temporarily trying to blind himself in the light that shined above him. He needed a drink again – the unbearable heat was getting to him, and his head was hurting again. He stepped forwards out of the light, leaning up to close his lips around the water dispenser, taking a few licks at it, before he realised he was being watched, again.

“Muggle,” came a voice, from far too close – a voice Harry distinctly recognised – for it had mocked him almost constantly for six years. He drew back from the voice, which only continued as he moved away. “Step into the light. Let me see you.”

Harry stepped into the light, obediently, hurrying to hide his shock before the wizard saw it. Surely he was imagining things? His memory must be failing him. This couldn’t be the man he thought it was, it simply couldn’t be.

“That’s a Hungarian Horntail,” said the voice from the shadows. “Let me see the rest of it.”

Feeling an ominous stone deep in his chest, Harry slowly turned around, revealing the rest of the design to the watching wizard. “A Swedish Shortsnout, a Welsh Green, a Chinese Fireball…well, well, well…”

Harry froze again once he’d finished his revolution. He could make something up…he could say he copied them from photographs, couldn’t he?

“I wonder why the wizard who commissioned it chose those particular dragons…” Harry felt a great leap of relief in his chest. It must have shown on his face, because the wizard stepped closer, his eyes narrowing suspiciously – half moons of white in the darkness, under the betraying glint of straw coloured hair “What’s your name, Muggle?”

For a moment, Harry had forgotten his name – and ‘Draco Malfoy’ lunged to the tip of his tongue, only to be stopped before he might stupidly say it.

“E-Emrys Monthaven,” he finally said, after perhaps too long a pause. Draco stepped from the shadows now, and his face too was cast into shadow and light – only exceedingly handsome – perhaps less so for the stress that showed in the lines around his eyes. He looked down at the name card, then back to Harry.

“Well, at least you remember your own name,” he drawled. “Has there been much interest in you?”

Harry was stunned at the question. Draco was actually asking him about the competition. “I…yes, some.”

“Very good,” Draco breathed, nodding his head once. “Have you been an embroiderer since the beginning of the Dominion?”

Harry tensed just a little bit. Was this a trick question? He tipped his head a little bit to one side. Draco elaborated for him, “You’re far too handsome to have survived so far without having been in another profession at all…I simply find it hard to believe…”

Raising his eyebrows just a little bit, Harry looked out of the cage into Draco’s cool grey eyes. He felt a sudden desire to kill him which he quickly quenched with a draught of reality. There were possibilities, though… If he could just get Draco to buy him, he knew he would be in a much better position to achieve what it was he wanted to achieve. He lifted his head just a little bit, lowered his voice a notch, so that it sounded somewhat huskier. “I’ve been lucky so far,” he replied.

“And cunning, I expect,” but there was an air of great interest in Draco’s voice now. “I shall have to be careful with handling you, I think.”

He departed, leaving Harry in the shadow still, thoughts raging and rampaging through his mind. Draco Malfoy was going to buy him – or at least try - Draco; who would instantly recognise Harry’s wand if he saw it.

Harry stood in silence, barely stirring as more punters looked in on him in consideration, then moved on, occasionally saying the same kinds of things that Harry had heard already. And then the wizards dribbled to a stop again, and the lights came on all the way down the hall, while the spotlights faded out. 

Now, groups of Muggles came and went, escorted by one wizard, and leading each slave out of the long hallway, and down a doorway further along that Harry could not see. He didn’t need to be a Seer to know what was happening – the auction had started, and the slaves were being led down one by one.

Harry was left for some time before the wizards came to get him. All the cages around him were now empty of their occupants, and he had begun to wonder whether his Master had changed his mind when the troupe stopped outside his door, an opened it.

He lifted his hands up in surrender, following quietly as he was led out into the hall and down the dark corridor towards the end. It reminded him sickeningly of the Ministry of Magic, for once they reached the door, he was directed to the left, and escorted down a long set of narrow stairs.

At the bottom, he was permitted a chance to empty his bladder, and once he was done, he was marched in the hands of only one Muggle guard out to wait in the very short line of people to go on stage.

The woman in front of him, he realised, was praying, and the man in front of her had two guards, who were fighting to hold him still – but for the most part the air was subdued. Why, after all, would anyone dare to try and escape when they were under the noses of three or four hundred wizards at least?

The struggling man was tugged out through the black curtains onto the stage, and Harry saw that he was in manacles; obviously considered dangerous. He was thrust to his knees beside the podium – at which point bidding began, and the ebony curtain fluttered shut to conceal his view.

Harry listened to the almost silent room. There was a talk – a constant babble from the auctioneer, but beyond that, there was nothing. If Harry strained, he could hear words:

“Does no-one want this Muggle? This is his third auction and his last chance? Won’t you even take him for a galleon? This is your last chance… Come on – isn’t he even worth a sickle for a scream? No…?”

There was still silence, and the auctioneer too had stopped speaking. “Well, if that’s the case then…”

Harry heard the man on stage begin to beg at the top of his voice, “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”

But nobody was heeding his cries. The blubbering continued, and then the auctioneer’s voice rang out, “Avada Kedavra!”

There was a cheer from the crowd, and a sickening thump as what could only be the man’s body collapsed onto the stage. Two of the Muggles from the sidelines dashed out to take away the dead body, and the quaking woman was led out in front of Harry.

Before the curtains closed again, Harry heard “Lot number 102. Let us start the bidding at five galleons. Do I have five?” And the curtains shut again.

Five galleons? Was that all that a human life was worth? Harry felt sick again. How much would he make? Would he be worth as much as a wand? Or perhaps he might be lucky, and be worth more like the sum of a good broomstick. He shuddered and closed his eyes. He wished he didn’t know what a galleon truly was worth – he might feel somewhat less ill.

And yet, the bidding rose and then ended. Harry realised that no more Muggles had been brought down behind him, and he kept looking over his shoulder as though desperate to see someone appear. Surely he wasn’t the last lot?

It seemed he was. He found himself pushed forwards, led out onto the brightly lit stage a spotlight following his progress until he was stood beside the auctioneer, who was pointing at him with his wand. “This is the last lot – shall we have a starting bid of say…twenty galleons?”

No less than twenty wands erupted with sparks at the starting bid, and the auctioneer tried to narrow it down. “Fifty then?” A few less sets of sparks, and then “One hundred,” brought the bidding down to five people. “A bid from the floor?” The auctioneer asked, and one person, sitting some way to the right, etched an enormous ‘300’ in the air with his wand, while someone to the left only wrote ‘200’ and two more etched ‘250’.

“I have three hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I have three twenty?”

One of the people who had written ‘250’ now shot sparks into the air. Their rival bid against them, and the numbers escalated horribly. Harry felt a whirl of nausea – everyone was watching him – bright faces lit by excitement – and the sparks wouldn’t stop flying.

“I have six fifty,” said the auctioneer, a little flushed, for the number was certainly higher than he had expected. “Do I have a higher bid from the floor, or are we all done?”

“Eight hundred.” Draco had not bid yet, Harry had not been able to see him, though he had searched the sea of seats and the bidders’ faces. Now Draco was standing up in his seat, almost in the centre, at Harry’s eye level, and he had just bid.

“Eight hundred, Mr. Malfoy?” asked the auctioneer. Draco nodded, almost imperceptibly. There was utter silence in the auction house, and then the auctioneer coughed, “Well, er…does anyone want to outbid Mr. Malfoy?”

Still nothing – no movement from the crowd – no wand sparks and no numbers. Harry found his gaze caught by the man standing in front of him. He was frozen to stage, as he had been since he’d arrived upon it.

“Sold then,” The auctioneer tapped his wand against the table with a sound like a gambol, and then bustled over to Harry, bringing his wand to Harry’s jaw, and tilting it up. “You’d better do well. Marty is a good friend of mine, and if I hear that you’ve disgraced him to someone as important as Malfoy…well, I shall be very angry with you.”

Harry suspected that ‘Marty’ must be the name of his previous Master – and the fact that he and the auctioneer were friends had probably been the reason he’d been the last lot in the auction. The crowds were beginning to dissipate now, leaving to go back into the corridor to claim their lots. Harry, however, was left on stage, as Draco came down from his seat and then rose up the steps to meet him.

He was still taller than Harry, and he had obviously been rewarded reasonably for his progress. No surprise, really, since it had been Draco who had ‘killed’ him. How could he have possibly known that Harry would survive the Avada Kedavra he had cast upon him? No…Draco had done well out of Harry’s ‘death’ – it had certainly made up for his prior errors, and now he was in Voldemort’s favour.

The blonde man stood over him for a second, then lifted his hand up to Harry’s jaw, pushing his head back slightly as he caressed it, so that he could meet Harry’s gaze. A shudder of revulsion went coldly down his spine at the touch, but Harry could no more move away than if he’d truly been frozen with a good ice hex.

“There’s something strange about you,” Draco said after a moment, as he slowly let his hand slide away from Harry. “But don’t worry…I’ll find out what it is.” He held Harry’s gaze for a long moment, as though Harry might accidentally let slip whatever it was that was strange, but when nothing changed, Draco stepped away, letting his eyes move to the ground. “Come, Emrys.”

Harry followed, feeling the weight of his wand against his chest again for the first time since he’d entered the building. He could just… No, it was too soon. He needed time to plan – a safe path to take, somewhere to hide while he played out his revenge.

And there were things he needed too; things that he could not defeat Voldemort without.

They came up a long set of stairs, all covered with that same green carpet, and found themselves in the gallery once more. Draco led Harry through, and stopped only to give orders to the Goblin who had come to oversee the transactions. He nodded and stepped away again, and he and Harry made their way out into the entrance hall, where there were already several witches and wizards gathered with their new possessions, showing them off while they chattered and waited for their carriages to arrive.

Draco stopped to speak to several of the wizards – his long fingers clutched around one of Harry’s frail wrists as he spoke. They cast admiring glances his way now and again, and some of the women complimented Draco on finding such a fine embroiderer, and would they be able to employ his services?

Soon enough, though, Draco was tugging him out of the door. Harry was glad to leave – he could still hear their insipid voices ringing in his ears; see their cruel narrow faces and sharp eyes watching his movements.

Their carriage had already arrived, and this was somewhat different to the one that Harry had arrived in himself. It was stately, decorated with gold and silver, and rather than be led by common horses, this carriage was led by thestrals.

“I wonder,” breathed Draco, “Can you see them, Muggle?”

Harry could indeed see them. Their bright, white eyes were fixed on him, and Draco was pulling him over towards them, dragging his hand out to touch their thin hides, to feel the bones beneath them – running his hand down over the wing.

The thestrals themselves did not scare Harry – it was what he saw in their eyes that terrified him – for he saw not the man he had become, not Emrys Monthaven, with his pale brown hair, and mahogany eyes – but Harry Potter, looking aged, worn and gaunt, with his scar blazing clear on his forehead. Draco couldn’t see that – Harry had to get him away from the thestrals. 

“So these are thestrals?” he asked, judging himself carefully. “I’ve only ever seen drawings of them before…My Master told me you couldn’t take photographs of them.”

Draco smiled, slowly, and gently pulled Harry away from the thestrals, leading him into the carriage as his footman opened the green and gold door to let them in. “Did you often work from photographs?” Draco asked, as he gave Harry’s shoulder a gentle push, forcing him to sit on the floor, while Draco took a seat, stretching out on the large seat in the back of the carriage with unnecessary delight in doing so.

“Yes,” Harry replied bluntly, forcing down another wave of anger that threatened to engulf him. ‘Play along,’ he told himself, sharply, ‘You are not his equal any more. You must be a Muggle a little longer.’

“And the dragons?” Draco was still studying him with acute interest. The carriage was creaking as it began to move.  
“People…” Harry started, but had to correct himself, “Wizards like dragons.”

“Yes…yes they do,” Draco mused to himself.  
There was blissful silence for a while. Harry tried to make himself comfortable on the floor of the carriage as it jolted around furiously. Draco merely laughed as Harry got thrown down when the carriage took off.

“Eight hundred galleons, you cost me,” Draco said, when they must have been flying for ten minutes or so. “You have no idea how much that is, do you?”

“I have a fair idea…” Harry breathed, looking down at the floor.

“Oh yes?” Draco asked, raising both his thin blonde eyebrows at once.

“About as much as four hundred sets of my robes. They sell for two galleons each. That’s almost a week’s work,” he added.

“So I should make my money back from you with just a week’s work, Emrys? That is good to know.”

Harry found himself looking resolutely at Draco’s feet. Draco, apparently, was quite happy with himself, and his new purchase. “When you have made up your cost for me, I can begin to profit from you further, I think,” Draco was saying. Harry was imagining doing terrible things to Draco’s dragonhide boots in an effort not to listen to his future being planned. He would slave away, and Draco would get his money’s worth. If only Draco knew who he was talking to…

‘No, Harry,’ said a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Hermione, ‘If he knew, you’d be turned over to Voldemort before you could blink. Don’t you dare tell him!’

He was pleased to find that Hermione’s voice had drowned out the rest of what Draco had been saying, and that the boots he’d been glaring at hadn’t set on fire yet. He tilted his head up to look at Draco in the silence that followed – to find that the Slytherin was looking down at him, steadily.

“You look almost like him in this light,” Draco said, softly. “I could transfigure you, I suppose…”

“What?” Harry asked, blinking wildly in consternation.

“Transfigure. Change one thing into another; in your case, your eyes… They’re the right shape, but the wrong colour.”

Harry didn’t quite like where this conversation was going. “What colour ought they to be?” He was dreading the answer. And it came, just as he had expected it to.

“Green.”

“Oh…?” he asked, weakly. “A-any particular reason?”

“Because that’s what colour Harry Potter’s eyes were.”

Harry tried not to flinch at the use of his name, and kept Draco’s gaze. “Harry Potter…? Wasn’t he supposed to be the ‘saviour’?”  
“He’s dead,” Draco replied, with a grim smirk sliding over his features. “I killed him myself. Watched him fall, kicked him where he lay.”

Harry tried to let the shock show on his features – he imagined himself from Draco’s eyes, and it brought the point across far enough for his jaw to drop, and his eyes to widen. “But…”

“You look a lot like him,” Draco was saying – and his hand had fallen, and it was touching Harry again. This time he did tug his cheek away from Draco’s touch. Draco had cast the killing blow on him all those years ago. Draco was not to be trusted – and Harry could not let the Slytherin touch him.

“Now, now, Emrys…” Draco breathed, watching Harry move out of arm’s reach and settle himself against he opposite wall. “That’s no way to treat your new Master. You were doing so very well…”

“You killed him, and now you want me to look like him so that you can…so that…” Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. But that didn’t matter; Draco didn’t need him to say it to know what he wanted to say.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

“I won’t do it,” Harry hissed obstinately. “I won’t let you.”

“You have no choice in the matter, Emrys. You are my slave to do with as I see fit. I am your Master, and you will obey me, willingly or not. Do we understand each other?”

Draco was glowering at him, but Harry was glaring right back. He was stunned when Draco leant back in his seat, the smile sliding back over his face once more. “I’m in no hurry to break you. I will take my time.”

Harry leant back a little harder in his seat and closed his eyes, trying to block out the world, block out Draco. And yet in his mind he was already planning what it was he should be doing next. He could not keep his wand on him if Draco might order him to undress at any given moment. And so his first priority must of course be to find somewhere safe and accessible to conceal it, once he reached the Manor.


	3. His New Home

  
Author's notes: Living incognito as a Muggle, Harry Potter a.k.a. Emrys Monthaven lives under Voldemort's rule. One day his life goes spiralling out of control. Will he be able to keep his identity secret? And can he really stand watching the world he knew being destroyed?  


* * *

Chapter 3

Landing with Thestrals turned out to be far, far worse than Harry remembered it. Sitting on the carriage floor, his suffering was inevitable. The carriage gave a great groan, and then it tipped almost vertical, sending Harry crashing against the board by Draco’s feet. Draco just leant back into the movement, whilst Harry scrabbled to get himself back upright as they plummeted towards the ground.

Just before impact, the carriage gave another groan, and leveled out, again sending Harry onto his back on the floor. There were a few moments to register the pain before the carriage landed on spinning wheels with a sickening veering sensation, and then the thestrals landed too, giving the carriage a lot more balance, and slowing it down immensely, so that Harry slid back across the floor and lay dazed at Draco’s feet.

The carriage stopped almost instantly after the landing, and Harry groaned as the door opened, and Draco stepped over him to get out. A few moments later small, firm hands were lifting him to his feet, and two girls were carrying him back towards the house. They were Muggles of course, both dressed identically in long, silvery green robes, and wearing their brown, curly hair the same way, half-held back with a single band. Harry was struck by their resemblance to Hermione – in fact, if he hadn’t been so shaken, he might have called one of them by this name. It was lucky that he didn’t, all things considered, for Draco was walking not far ahead, clearly paying plenty of attention to the way that Harry responded to the house.

The building, when he finally looked up at it, was from this angle simply one, high, impenetrable wall. As they approached, the drawbridge went down, and the portcullis came up, revealing that it contained a square courtyard, and was in fact as deep as it was across. Deep below them as they crossed the drawbridge, was a wide, murky moat, and Harry was sure he saw some creature flopping around in the depths, but that too, in it’s depth, seemed to suggest that the Manor, if it could be called that, and not a castle, went just as far below ground level as it did above it.

It was with some trepidation, then, that Harry realized just what kind of fortress he had been brought to. There would be no way out if he tried to escape. Even if he did somehow escape the walls, crossing the moat would be hazardous; and getting up the other side nigh but impossible. It was when this grim sensation came over him that Draco smiled victoriously at his expression, and walked a little faster into the gatehouse, opening up a door, but waiting for Harry to arrive. The reason was, as Harry soon found out, because he wanted to bring the portcullis down and the drawbridge up right in front of Harry’s nose, like a firmly locked and bolted door, only substantially worse.

This concluded, he turned his slate blue eyes to him and spoke for the first time. “Come with me,” he directed, so that Harry followed him, the two girls going back to their regular jobs. 

They went upstairs to a bedroom, and Draco looked around it, then shook his head and went to another. While the first had been green and beige – this room was red and warm. The furniture’s muted colours, the tone of the bedclothes; it all felt very Gryffindor. This was the intention, Harry supposed, for Draco had a good firm look at him, letting his eyes roam all over Harry – taking him in in the setting of the red room.

“Perfect,” Draco remarked, moving across the room to Harry. One flick of his wrist shut the door, making Harry feel trapped, so that he backed away from the approaching man. 

Draco was coming close…too close; and then he just stopped, his wand lifting dangerously. “Come here,” he ordered, grey eyes like stone spears. And Harry approached, his head held high, ready to jump away at any given moment. There was a tense moment as Draco’s hand lifted – and then his finger ran over the curve of Harry’s jaw.

Through sheer will alone, Harry didn’t waver under the touch; though he felt like yelling and screaming, and possibly biting Draco’s finger off. It was much easier simply to stand still and let the blonde wizard touch his face. Draco drew on Harry’s face with his fingertip, mumbling to himself. “Nose needs work,” and “Too difficult for me, need to get someone in” and “Use that photograph from the newspaper.”

Finally though, Draco moved back, appraising Harry once more. “And tomorrow…I think you can have a haircut…but right now…have a bath and go to sleep. You’ll have a busy day tomorrow Emrys.”

Draco paused expectantly, still watching Harry as Harry watched him. He seemed bemused: for Harry, lost in his own world had completely forgotten his response. When he finally came around, it was as though a mist cleared from his eyes, and he blurted out a hurried “Yes, sir,” and bowed respectfully.

That was all that Draco seemed to want, for he left Harry alone after that, locking him into the room as he left.

The bizarre effect of this was that Harry was suddenly absolutely alone for the first time since this war had begun, and the instant silence was deafening around him. After a moment of simply standing there wondering what to do, he lost his iron nerve, and began to skitter around the room to keep himself busy.

Really, there was plenty of room; the king sized bed opposite one of the two main windows looked dwarfed in comparison to the room; like a toy bed, rather than a real one. A huge russet rug separated the bed from the other side of the room, where an immense wardrobe stretched at least the length of three regular ones. To one side of the door was another immense piece of furniture; this time a massive chest of draws, and sat in the window alcoves were two beautiful window-seats. All the furniture was beige enamel with gold filigree; the soft furnishings, such as the window seat covers and the curtains closing in the bed all of the finest crimson velvet, tied back with the most ornate gold clasps; the same of which glittered from the various other knobs and handles in the room.

An inspection of the door at one end revealed a bathroom no less than half the size of the bedroom; with a bathtub similar only to the one that Harry had been familiar with at school; cream marble and twenty or thirty gold taps. Again, the fixtures in this room were rich and marvelous; and a single tapestry hung on the wall at one end, of a great golden lion rampant on his crimson field.

It was only when Harry had searched in every corner of the room for any kind of trickery or listening device that he crept back towards the bed, realizing for the first time just how tired he was. The whole day had gone past: the light sleeping back at the dwellings, the auction house, two long, worrying flights… It was a wonder that he was still awake at all. And poor Charmille…would she be able to look after herself without him?

 

In bed now, Harry curled up, still wearing all his clothes. That was how he slept, after all. Soon, he found the feel of the blankets choking; the heat inside of the house stifling – and when he opened his eyes in the pitch of morning darkness he had a fright to realize that he was absolutely alone, sleeping in a strange place. 

After that, there was no sleep for him. He rose, and the candles flickered on for him helpfully. The bathroom was his first visit – to relieve himself, and then, after realizing just how wonderful it might feel to be clean – lingered to have a bath.

For a moment, Harry thought about youthful games; turning all the taps on and watching the different bubbles mix together – but now, tired and drawn out, he desired only a simple bath, and chose a single tap, turning it on and yawning as the water ran. Really, he had to think of somewhere to hide his wand. In a room as cut and dried as the one he had been presented with, it wouldn’t be easy; but if he was lucky he might find a loose floorboard under the bed – and that was all he would need.

Leaving the bath to fill, Harry came back out to the bedroom, hunting around for such a floorboard. Under the bed, none presented itself, but a lucky step on the carpet gave a relieving creak, and Harry found a hiding place after all. Just under the corner of the carpet, one of the corners of the board had come loose. It took some prying to break the binding on the other corners, but when it was up, Harry had his perfect spot, and safely laid his wand down, replacing both the board and the carpet.

The bath, when he finally reached it, was just near overflowing, and very warm, but Harry was grateful for it when he stepped in, letting the heat sear his filthy body, burning through the layer of dirt that concealed his true complexion.

A yellow coloured liquid soap and a hard cloth were necessary to do what the water could not, and Harry scrubbed viciously at his arms and legs, until the very touch of skin on skin made him flinch in pain. 

A long soak after this relaxed him immensely, and when he rose he dressed only in his light silk robes, letting them fall over his shoulders; touching without really touching.

It felt strange to be wearing robes again, and yet not to be carrying his wand; the absence of it was like of a tooth – a hole that you simply couldn’t fill, that made not only your whole mouth feel strange, but your whole body.

None the less, he didn’t have much time to worry about the fact that he felt a little bizarre; for no sooner had he toweled dry his long hair, but Draco arrived, escorting a small collection of people into his room. Each of the people carried bags and wore rich Wizarding robes: there was a black haired old hag with pink eyes, a beautiful young witch with delicate looking brown hair pulled back in an extravagant, geisha fashion, a tall, middle aged man with a doctor’s bag, and an old man who entered twirling his wand in his fingertips, his tired old eyes fixed firmly on Harry.

“It’s time to fix you,” purred Draco, as he crossed the room towards Harry, withdrawing his own wand warningly as he came. 

The motion made Harry flinch, but it was all he could do before a firm hand closed on his wrist, and Draco yanked him towards the center of the room. His panic button pushed, Harry responded in the only way a trained warrior could respond. He took a quick step forwards, braced himself and then threw Draco over his shoulder onto the floor.

When he woke a minute or so later, he was on his knees before Draco, hands bound firmly behind him, his head spinning painfully. He must have been hit by several Stupefies, he realized – but that was not going to be all that he suffered for his transgression: he was sure of it, for the fury in Draco’s eyes said all that he needed to know.

 

“That was a very, very bad thing to do, Emrys,” Draco hissed, his voice low and threatening. There was a crack, and Harry’s head snapped sidewards, pulling the rest of his body so that he fell after it, hitting the floor. “I am your Master! If you try to defend yourself from me, or attack me, then you will be punished! Crucio!”

The Cruciatus curse hit Harry like a brick wall, and then there was nothing but pure blinding agony. It throbbed through his body, running up and down, making his every nerve into an inferno. He screamed – he must have screamed – but the blood rushing through his ears deafened him – and then it was over. It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds – enough to really hurt a Muggle who had never felt the spell before. For Harry it left his arms and legs tingling, acheing in pain, but little more. He forced a groan to sound more than it might have been otherwise, and Draco pulled him back up to his knees by his hair, and left him there to balance.

“If you could begin with the hair, Ms. Manolis,” Draco asked, stepping back to leave plenty of room for the beautiful witch to approach Harry. “Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you.”

The woman moved up in front of Harry, then sat on an offered chair, bringing her wand up to brush back Harry’s fringe. “May I see the picture again, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, sweetly, with a foreign accent that Harry didn’t quite recognize. There were foreign wizards and witches from all over in England now – they were a valuable asset, helping to increase the number of their kind; and whilst some of them truly were dark like the Death Eaters, there were many, like this Manolis, who had come here because of the pure money that slavery of an entire race could generate.

Draco had found the picture, and had levitated it up next to Harry, who’s eyes flickered towards it. His old self looked back from the photograph. In it he looked tired and worn, the scar on his forehead blazing brighter than ever, but his green eyes faded. His image smiled weakly at him, then looked away into the distance forlornly. Harry knew just why; this picture had been taken during the days when Hagrid had been missing – he’d turned up dead soon afterwards, his flesh torn off his body strip by strip as he lived through it all. It had been an awful day; and the sixth year Hufflepuff girl who had found him threw herself off the Astronomy Tower two days afterwards, compounding the grief.

Manolis took hold of his chin, turning his face back around towards her, and then she began to flick her wand back and forth, and Harry’s hair began to flutter down over his shoulders in long strands, pooling on the carpet around his knees. It didn’t take her long to finish, and then there was the simple matter of charming his hair back to its original raven black, which made Harry’s scalp tingle all over. One more charm cleared away his beautiful hair from where it lay dead on the carpet, and Draco crowed, then restrained himself and bid Manolis goodbye, since her job was now done, making room for the pink eyed witch to approach.

Next in line was his eyes, and more brutally, the scar that marked his forehead. Harry didn’t see it coming – after all, the spell that changed his eyes from brown back to bright green left him momentarily blinded – and so the burning touch of a hot knife into his temple was a complete shock to him. He screamed and tried to move his head, but found it impossibly frozen in place; so that he simply had to wait, and scream, as the woman drew on his old scar.

When she was done and he was released, he fell panting to the ground on one shoulder, his whole body trembling with the strain of what had happened to him. Draco laughed, however…just laughed and laughed.

There was a break then in the pain and humiliation, as the third man studied the photograph that Draco had given him very carefully: this was the terrifying, watchful man who had been eyeing Harry all the way through the proceedings with the same look that he’d seen on Dudley and his friends just as they noticed Harry coming around the corner. It was like how a butterfly hunter eyes a rare specimen just before he sprays a powerful asphyxiate into the air and kills it.

Nothing would hold off his fate though; the man approached finally, sharp eyes running back and forth, and then his wand lifted and agony tore through Harry again. There was no particular place that hurt; just a general feeling of pain that reminded Harry terribly of the effects of Polyjuice potion. He knew what would be changing: the shape of his eyes, his chin, and his crooked nose.

When the man was done, Harry could tell immediately that the effects had been successful. He could see it in both Draco and the man’s eyes – a hunger, a fascination, even perhaps a little awe at the effect of the transformation. Before them, bound and kneeling, was a perfect replica of Harry Potter, green eyes blazing in bruised defiance.

“If you don’t mind,” spoke up the fourth visitor, “I should like to do my examination now. I have other clients to attend to this afternoon.” This man was another import; an American doctor: Harry recognized his accent immediately.

Of course, even that didn’t prepare him for the man’s ‘examination’.

First of all, his robes were pulled over his head, and then the doctor ran his wand up and down Harry’s body – pushed it into his mouth, and up his nose, and into his ear – and then, when Harry felt that it simply couldn’t get any worse, into his arse. The effect was that he made a noise of surprise, which made the two other men (who had watched, or rather oogled, throughout the examination) laugh, violently.

Finally the doctor retreated, and looked up to Draco. “He has no diseases, no illness, and except for the cough caused by the fabric that he works with, nothing wrong with him at all. I’ll send you the potion for his cough. Ah…and you’ll be pleased to know, if you didn’t already, that he is untouched. No tattoos, piercings or brands, either. Congratulations. Now, I really must go…”

The doctor exited, and after a long stare from Draco, the transfiguring man left too, leaving the two of them alone in silence. Draco just examined Harry from all angles, a fresh, strong hunger in his eyes. He was doomed, he knew it…

“You’ll respond to the name ‘Potter’ from now on. Do you understand?”

A long pause, and then ‘Yes Master,” came the appropriate answer.

“Would you like to see yourself in the mirror, Potter?”

Again a pause: this time Draco grew impatient and kicked him in the knee, “Yes, Sir!”

A magical mirror was drawn up in front of him, and Harry had his first look at his own reflection for so many years. The pain had brightened his eyes so that they stood out…or maybe that was simply the starvation that he had suffered, making his flesh look bloodless. His body certainly was emaciated, but it was still the body of a warrior, lean muscles under the surface, barely sustained, and covered in scars; knife scars and burn scars and teeth scars and curse scars. His hair was the worst thing; irritatingly like how it had been before, it fell at weird angles, refusing to lie flat or out of his eyes, even when Harry shook his head. Already he was regretting the loss of the length of his hair, keeping it back out of the way.

But even though his eyes stood out from his face, there was no denying the shock of actually having his scar back; standing prominently across his forehead, blazing like the day it had been placed there. And yet just below the surface of his powerful glamour lay the real one; still connected to Voldemort.

His shock must have shown, for Draco smirked, flicking his wand at the mirror to disappear it. “Well, Potter…” he started, “Why don’t we start with breakfast? Shall we eat here?”

Draco clapped his hands, and an earless, one-eyed House Elf appeared in the middle of the room. “Master Draco is calling Dobby?” it asked, hoarsely. Then there was a pause, as Dobby saw Harry, and he cried, “Harry Potter is living! Dobby is being very happy! Harry Potter! Dobby was thinking he was dead!” The house elf crossed the room, threw its big arms around Harry’s neck and began to cry into his shoulder, much to Draco’s amusement.

Harry, however, had been shocked into almost betraying his emotions. If Malfoy hadn’t been so distracted by the elf’s behaviour, he might have seen Harry’s painful discovery show in his face before he managed to rein himself in.

Instead, Draco merely saw an over-excited Dobby clinging to a baffled and scared looking Muggle. It was amusing, but that was all, and he went over to Dobby, pulling him roughly off the other man. “Potter and I want breakfast in here, Dobby. Deal with it.”

The house elf gave one sad look at Harry and then disappeared. A few minutes later a silver tray simply appeared on top of the chest of drawers.

“Your knees must be painful,” Draco said, almost kindly, coming back over to Harry and kneeling behind him to undo the binding on his wrists through the folds of his robes. Undoing them allowed Draco to pull the fabric away and leave Harry thoroughly naked, shivering under his gaze, but unwilling to get up, because of what the wizard might do if he did so. He did not have a choice, though; for Draco took his hair in his hand and yanked him up to his feet, before leaning over his shoulder. “Go and lie on the bed, Potter,” he ordered, and Harry shivered, but didn’t obey.

Draco waited a few seconds, but when Harry clearly wasn’t going to move, he drew back his hand and smacked him hard across his rear, making the other man yelp in surprise and step forwards, turning towards his aggressor.

“You do what you’re told when you’re told, Potter. Now go and lie on the bed.”

Still Harry didn’t move; but Draco had had enough. He took hold of Harry’s hair again, dragged him across the room and threw him down onto the bed, summoning fresh chains to hold his limbs in place. Spread eagled and naked, Harry felt considerably more threatened; his heart rate and breath racing.

“No!” he pleaded. “Please! I don’t want…”

Draco’s hand was hard on his face for the second time that morning, silencing him immediately and filling his mouth with blood.

“You will want to do what I want you to do, Potter,” stated Draco, his bright, lust filled eyes on Harry. “Right now…I only want to feed you.”

It seemed to Harry a strange thing to say, but it was just what Draco meant, fetching the silver tray and bringing it over to Harry. Of course…Draco’s version of feeding Harry was a little more intimate than the latter might have desired. First of all, Draco stripped – and then he climbed on top of his prey, his erection standing proud, one knee on either side of Harry’s chest.

“Do you like that, Potter?” Draco asked, his silver eyes fixed on the other’s face. Harry only shuddered, turning his eyes away. Draco’s response to this was to take the lid off the tray, and in turn that noise brought Harry’s head back around, eager for food.

“Aah,” said Draco, thoughtfully, taking a slice of white chicken from the tray on the end of a slender silver fork. “I wonder what the great Harry Potter will do for a scrap of food.”

He paused expectantly, just watching Harry as the other devoured the food with his eyes. Harry could smell it, it was impossible not to, after all, he hadn’t eaten chicken in years… It made his mouth water.

 

Draco placed the chicken within his teeth, leaning down over Harry. Though their lips were far away from each other, Harry was still tentative to do as Draco’s actions suggested he do, but the aroma of the chicken proved too much, and he reached up and took the thicken hesitantly in his own teeth, then gulped it down before Draco could stop him.

Smiling, Draco leant back, picking up another piece of chicken. This one he placed on his tongue and Harry was just as hesitant to remove it. Eventually his taste-buds overpowered him, and despite the intimacy - despite the fact that this was Draco Malfoy – Harry could not resist the piece of chicken. He leant forwards, teeth and lips brushing Draco’s tongue; the piece of chicken stolen away from its resting place and consumed voraciously.

“Good boy,” Draco commended, savoring the taste of Harry’s lips on his own; of victory.

Harry felt broken already. He refused to look at Draco. Soon enough though, lips brushed against Harry’s own, forcing him to pay attention. Draco was close to him again, and in his mouth was a piece of bacon; delicious, mouthwatering bacon. But to get his prize, Harry would have to submit to a kiss. He couldn’t do that, could he? But maybe for bacon he could…

Warily, Harry tilted his head up, brushing his lower lip over Draco’s, testing the touch. Nothing happened, so Harry grew bolder, tenderly closing his lips over Draco’s, barely touching them. His tongue crept out, and Draco obliged by opening his mouth, letting Harry’s tongue brush the end of the piece of bacon, setting his tastebuds on fire. After that, Harry had to restrain himself from simply attacking Draco’s lips to claim the bacon. A simple kiss gave him what he wanted, instead.

Slowly Draco drew back, his gaze sweeping proudly over Harry. “You’re such a whore, Potter,” he said, making Harry bristle, but not respond. Hunger was so powerful a tool – it had been used to squash the force resisting at Hogwarts; it had been used to minimize resistance amongst the Muggles…and now it was a valuable reward for doing just what this filthy Death Eater wanted him to do. Hungry; Harry had no way to resist.

This time when Draco leant down, there was no food in his mouth. “Kiss me, or I take the food away,” he whispered, instead, his lips fluttering over Harry’s as he spoke. Harry was to refuse, but his stomach growled and groaned, and Harry brokenly complied, kissing Draco as he desired.

Several times Draco did this – a simple kiss, a piece of food. But on the fourth time, he did not retreat. Silver eyes closing, he closed over Harry dominatingly, pushing him back into the mattress and devouring his mouth with the same kind of hunger that Harry had shown. As he plundered Harry’s mouth he changed position, bringing his now urgent arousal against Harry’s chest. And now Harry knew what had spurred him on…surely the sight of him, Harry Potter, submitting to the simplest coaxing, was enough to bring a man with even the slightest fixation on him, to painful arousal. What power Draco must feel! Oh, if only Harry had his wand, he’d show Draco then…

He was boiling with fury – but that didn’t stop Draco’s kiss, and it didn’t stop the continuous grinding of Draco’s rigid penis against the muscles of his chest. It was so disgusting…so very revolting. 

Draco sat back up slowly, his whole body tense, his eyes glazed, and his hands changed position; one supporting him, the other shifting between them to take a firm hold of his arousal. The sight of this behaviour – if Harry had not suffered the sights of death and rape and violence as often as he had – would have been enough to put him off food, no matter how sick with hunger he felt.

Unaware of the way that he looked now; blonde hair hanging limply over his shoulders, his mouth hanging half open as though his jaw had been broken by a kick to the face, and blood making his face flush in a most un-handsome manner, Draco only continued pumping his length feverously. 

Still it went on; sickeningly long, Harry managing not to watch, but not having any choice in what he was listening to. Finally though, Draco gave out a cry like an injured animal and came, come spurting, dribbling from his cock into the crook of his hand, and all over Harry’s clean chest.

As Draco lay languid beside him his filthy hand rose tiredly onto Harry’s chest, drawing a line of ejaculate onto his lip. “Open your mouth,” came the command, and then a pause as he waited for Harry to comply. Harry, naturally, refused, and so Draco threatened him. “Open your mouth, or next time I’ll fuck it.”

This time there was less of a pause: Harry knew when he had no choice. Gradually he opened his mouth, and Draco’s salty fingers slid inside, making Harry gag at the unsavoury flavour. “Lick it off. Lick it off, and I’ll let you eat all you can manage.”

Now that was an offer. Harry opened his eyes for the first time since Draco had started masturbating, briefly examined Draco’s misty, tired eyes, and then quickly sucked and licked away the filth that covered his digits. It was too easy – the flavour oddly pleasing to his desperate palette – and soon enough Draco had rolled off him, letting him free so that he could eat his fill from the silver platter.

The food was so perfect – so absolutely wonderful, that there was nothing Harry could do to stop himself. Bacon, bread, chicken, grapes…such wonderful, blissful food! As he ate Draco dozed beside him; but Harry didn’t really notice, for the food distracted him.

He ate until he could eat no more – and as he sat back, so Draco sat up, his long fingers running up Harry’s back and making him shudder.

“So perfect…”

Sitting perfectly still now, Harry could have been an ice sculpture for all the signs of life he betrayed. Still Draco’s fingers wandered; up as far as his neck, and then down Harry’s front, tweaking a nipple as he descended.

It was intimate. It was unwanted. And yet Harry didn’t move. Not yet. He couldn’t let Draco see how much he was afraid of this.

Draco’s hand slid down further, until his fingers brushed through bristled hairs, and then Harry reacted, pulling away from him and crossing to the other side of the bed.

“What’re you afraid of, Potter?” came the purred question. Draco’s eyes were back to roaming over Harry’s body, devouring him in a different way.

There was no answer – and then “What are you afraid of?!”

“I’m not afraid!” came Harry’s reply. Dumbledore had said once that the thing Harry was most afraid of was being afraid. Well, today, Harry was more afraid of Draco than he was of his own fear. Draco Malfoy was a very real thing to be afraid of.

Draco was terrifying and he knew it, for now he advanced on Harry, half aroused again already, his eyes blazing again with that lust. “I think you are afraid,” the blonde purred, “I think you’re afraid of what I’m going to make you into.”

Harry leant back a little further, but already Draco had stopped approaching him, and instead climbed off the bed. “I want you to pay your dues,” Draco said, with an arched eyebrow. “My father’s birthday is the day after tomorrow. Today you will make a special set of robes for him; tomorrow you will prepare my other gift.” There was something unbelievably malicious in Draco’s eyes, but Harry determinedly ignored it so that he could glare at Draco sullenly.

“Or perhaps you would rather learn better how to please me than work?” Draco suggested, dangerously, making Harry turn his eyes away. He knew better than to hurry Draco’s affections upon himself. Embroidering was far more preferable a pastime.

And so that afternoon found Harry curled up on the bed, piles of soft pillows bracing him in just the most comfortable position, embroidering a set of green robes made out of the finest Acromantula silk, and decorated with softened Dragonhide buttonholes and silver buttons and buckles.

The workmanship of the robes was such that if Harry didn’t know who they were for, he should certainly have been on edge about embroidering it, just in case he messed up. As it was, decorating the robes for Lucius Malfoy was not a great issue. The design was simple; two beautiful, coiled silver snakes glittering on the front of the robe, and a large snake design; a cobra with its mouth open ready to strike, just like Malfoy Senior’s trademark cane.

All day Harry spent on it; truly taking his time, working into the same fabric again and again until the snake shimmered so beautifully in different shades of green and silver that it seemed alive.

It was one of Harry’s best works…worth far more than the two gold galleons it might have otherwise have cost. And Draco, when he came to inspect the work, certainly thought so too. He folded the robes up ever so carefully and removed them, returning to give Harry his dinner personally, but not staying to make him uncomfortable when he ate it.

Regardless of the morning’s activities; the rest of the day had turned out to be quite relaxing after all, although the loneliness left Harry plenty of time to think about what he’d left behind. He wondered if Charmille was okay for the final time that day, then rolled over and went to sleep on the soft bed, legs curled up to his chest.


	4. Harry's Talents

  
Author's notes: Living incognito as a Muggle, Harry Potter a.k.a. Emrys Monthaven lives under Voldemort's rule. One day his life goes spiralling out of control. Will he be able to keep his identity secret? And can he really stand watching the world he knew being destroyed?  


* * *

The sunlight streaking through the window onto his face was warm and unfamiliar, for the first time in years making Harry feel sleepier and not instantly waking him. It was so chokingly warm in the room: Harry stretched, twisting his arms above his head, reaching his toes out until the muscles at the back of his knees strained painfully. Skin against skin…it was almost frightening. Had something happened to him last night? No…no, he had just chosen to sleep naked for the first time in years. It was so warm.

Harry dozed, his green eyes flickering shut against the sunlight, tilting his head from it; but the heat blazed on, warming Harry deeply to the bone. He felt better than he had in so long. Full of food given freely by his Master, after a long sleep in a soft bed, with no fear of being brutally attacked as he slept; or his wand discovered.

There were noises outside his window, and Harry finally rose to find out what they were. In the courtyard below, a carriage had arrived. It was black, led by thestrals, decorated with silver snakes; and there on the very front, was the great crest of Lucius Malfoy himself.

Harry knew already who was inside the carriage, and so the tall figures of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy were little surprise to him when they were guided out of the carriage by their footmen.

Draco came across the courtyard then, and only then could Harry appreciate how tall the young man had become, and therefore how tall he himself must be, for Draco was similar in height to his father, and embraced him discreetly, before giving his mother a far more loving hug.

Standing at his window, Harry couldn’t quite hear the voices of the small group, but when Draco looked up to the window and saw him standing there, motioning to Lucius, Harry believed he had a good idea what the topic of discussion might be. He jumped back quickly from the window, barely giving Lucius Malfoy’s cool grey eyes a glimpse of him, and hurried about getting himself dressed before anybody else caught sight of him.

As it turned out, Draco did not come and get him straight away. Harry was sitting on the bed staring into space when the blond finally arrived in his room. 

“It is time for you to meet my family,” Draco began. “And I warn you, Potter… If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I shall allow my father to punish you. And he can be quite…unpleasant.”

Such a threat… It froze Harry to the insides to hear it. He knew full well just how brutal Lucius Malfoy could be. He’d seen the man fighting. He had been willing to kill children, after all…

Harry bit his lip, and then nodded, rising to his feet as though prepared to follow Draco. His ‘Master’ seemed to have other things in mind, however, for he suddenly lifted his left hand, presenting Harry with a silver chain and collar.

Instantly, Harry stepped back, his frightened eyes flicking to the collar, then back to Draco. “No,” he said, firmly, as though that was the final word on the matter.

“You will be still!” Draco barked, advancing on Harry. For a moment, it seemed like his order had worked – and then Harry broke away at a run, going for the bedroom door. He had only just reached it when the Impedimentia hit him, freezing him in place, defenseless and yet aware as Draco clipped the collar to his throat and secured the end of the silver chain.

When he was released, Harry fell to the floor at Draco’s feet, his balance lost in the moment of suspended animation. His hands came up, frantically, nails clutching and clawing at the restraint, scratching and bloodying his throat. It was all in vain though, and when he had given up, his throat stung, and his eyes were filled with unshed, bitter tears.

Still, Draco waited patiently, his eyes fixed on Harry, simply enjoying the show.

“Are you quite finished?” he asked, finally.

Sadly, Harry nodded, and responded by climbing back to his feet when Draco tugged on the chain.

“Good boy,” Draco purred, leading down the corridor without too much trouble from Harry, who followed close enough to keep the chain slack, his unhappy gaze fixed on the back of Draco’s head, wishing all kinds of accidents upon him.

Through the Manor they went, further than Harry had ever traveled before. They certainly went around one corner; but it could have been two, and they crisscrossed back and forth, if only, Harry was sure, to confuse him more. The building was extravagantly large…perhaps not so massive as Hogwarts, but certainly large. Its ceilings were high, its windows were huge, and every room was decked out in pure wealth; expensive carpets, furniture and soft-coverings, books and paintings and decorations.

They arrived at a large, richly decorated dining room; where a table stretched the entire length. At one end, there was a breakfast spread, and two silver heads sat speaking to each other, while the Muggle help lingered at the edges of the room, convenient to their Master’s call.

Draco approached, all the while having to increase his hold on the silver chain, for Harry was resisting coming any closer. Finally he had to stop, for Harry had refused to move, planting his feet down on the ground.

“Move it, Potter!” growled the heir of Malfoy, obviously at the end of his own tether in regards to Harry’s resistance. “Move.”

Harry let himself be pulled forwards one more step, giving Draco relief, but then he placed his feet even more squarely from before, his green eyes blazing defiantly. He didn’t even notice Lucius Malfoy coming up behind him, and only when the older man’s strong arm closed around his throat did Draco stop trying to pull him away.

“Well well…” Lucius purred, as Harry began to struggle pitifully in the strong grip. “What wonderful work Draco has done with you…”

Draco let go of the end of his chain, stepping back to let Lucius have his room. “I thought you might like him, father…I still have a lot of work to do.”

“And how much did he cost, Draco?” came the question.

“Nine hundred and twenty…after the spellwork I had to have done on him…”

Harry had stopped fighting, feeling thoroughly breathless. Lucius had moved up against him, the length of his body pressed to Harry’s. “He’s the best I’ve seen,” Lucius purred, and Harry shuddered again.

It was at this moment that Narcissa spoke from her place at the table. “I understand the…love of you boys for your toys…but I should also like to eat breakfast. Ah…and Lucius? I should appreciate if you kept yourself in line while I’m trying to eat. There’s nothing quite as bad as someone else’s orgasm to put one off their food.”

Trembling in relief, Harry found himself left alone, and sunk bonelessly to his knees at Draco’s side when the command came, laying his head against the side of the chair while he hyperventilated just as quietly as he could manage.

Draco chatted amiably with his mother about what the two of them had been doing while they were away, Lucius watching Harry hungrily over his French toast.

When he’d recovered his breath, Harry realized that Lucius’ chair was closer than it had been before. One long hand reached out to him, a silver fork held delicately between finger and thumb, with a piece of toast placed invitingly on the end.

Still, the person offering the food was Lucius Malfoy. Harry couldn’t overlook that fact. He would have refused, if Draco hadn’t taken that exact moment to knee him in the middle of his back discreetly.

Slowly, with his eyes fixed constantly on Lucius, he leant forwards, taking the toast off the fork with the very tips of his teeth. Lucius, laughing, leant away, still paying more attention to Harry than to his food.

“I’ve been teaching him a little already, haven’t I, Potter?” interrupted Draco, a few minutes later.

Harry paused, got another nudge in the back, and then replied, “Yes Master.”

“Well?” Lucius asked, his eyes full of macabre delight.

Draco leant over, passing the chain to Lucius, his eyes drifting to Narcissa, who had finished her breakfast, and now was standing up. “I have no desire to witness your barbarism this early. Enjoy your filthy Muggle.” And then she was gone, leaving Harry with the two male Malfoys.

“Show my father what you can do, Potter,” Draco purred, “And I shall of course reward you for your obedience.”

Harry knew what Draco wanted…for him to kiss Lucius Malfoy; to kiss him as he had allowed Draco to kiss him the previous night. The very thought was revolting, making Harry feel sick, putting him off possible food entirely. Yes, so he had allowed Draco with very little trouble, to do just what he wanted Harry to do – but that was yesterday, under duress. Harry had not eaten in months. It was not like that now. He was full from his previous meals, and though the breakfast was very inviting, there was nothing that was going to convince him to sacrifice his chastity for a mouthful of food.

Draco was not going to be patient though. He watched Harry with sharp eyes threatening pain if he didn’t do what Draco had boasted about.

Of course, Harry wasn’t entirely stupid. He rose to his feet slowly, taking the chain into his hand and gently increasing the weight of his pull until Lucius let go.

He stepped away, bringing the chain up, coiling it around his wrist, his eyes flickering to an aghast Draco, who was clearly wondering just what he was doing. Then he began to move, slow, sinuous movements; falling first into one extreme position and then slithering into another, green eyes fluttering beneath tousled black hair.

Harry knew he looked good – he’d seen that much in the mirror. The yoga positions that he now took up he had learnt from one of Aunt Petunia’s books while he had been spending his last Summer holiday at her house. The rest was improvisation, flavoured with the fluidity of movement that only a well trained warrior could possess.

Even though he was surprised by Harry’s sudden actions, Draco leant back to watch, smirking at Lucius as though this was what he had meant all along. Harry danced, taking all the room that he needed to do so, using every part of his body in ways that he had certainly never done before.

Of course, he could see Lucius out of the corner of his eye; and though the man seemed to be appreciating it, there was something else in his gaze that made it clear that he wanted more. “I want to see this without clothes,” the older man said abruptly, making Harry tremble.

Still…it was better than having to kiss him, and so when Draco nodded at him Harry complied, slowly. He danced his way out of his clothing, taking his sweet time about it. After all, he had no desire – no desire whatsoever – to have Lucius Malfoy; lecher extraordinaire, examining his body like that.

Too soon, though, he was out of his thin robes, performing his impromptu dance in nothing at all. Draco seemed enamored too; his blue-grey eyes followed Harry’s every movement as though under a spell. Finally Harry had had enough of their watching, and he danced back to the table, dropping to his knees in front of Lucius and placing his hand and the silver chain on one of the elder Malfoy’s knees, his head on the other. His whole body tensed, neck bared in such a position, feeling as though he could be struck dead by a single blow and yet never know it. If that wasn’t submission, then nothing was. Hopefully it would be enough.

It was contenting, then, that Lucius only took the chain from Harry, reaching down to touch his face and tilting his head back. “That was beautiful for a first try, Potter,” he looked up at Draco, “I hope that he will be improving in future.”

“Oh yes,” Draco replied quickly, his eyes piercing the back of Harry’s head. “He will definitely be improving.”

Harry felt the intention clearly. Not only would his dancing become one of his ‘talents’, but the lack of obedience which only the younger Malfoy had registered, would be focused upon too.

Lucius handed Harry’s chain back to Draco, rising to his feet. “I must go and find your mother, Draco. I shall see you in the courtyard before lunch.” Smiling, and with one last look at Harry, Lucius disappeared too, leaving the younger Malfoy and his prey quite alone.

“Did you think that was clever, Potter?”

“Yes, Master.” This time the reply came as immediately as Draco required it, but the response was a slap across his cheek for responding to a rhetorical question.

“In the future, Potter, I expect you to do what I ask you to do. Is that understood?”

Harry nodded, slowly, one hand on his cheek, glaring resentfully at his ex-classmate.

“It is time for your new lessons,” Draco proclaimed, climbing to his feet and dragging Harry upright before he had time to get up under his own steam. Before he could open his mouth, Draco had persisted, “You will be learning the art of fellatio, under my most-talented, but unfortunately ageing whore. It’s a shame…but the time has soon come when she will have to the breeding centers, rather than remain with me.”

Harry, in his own little bubble of normal, everyday things, like surviving the Dark Lord, and playing Quidditch, had never come across the word ‘fellatio’, and so clearly the meaning of what Draco implied flew over his head. But as he was to learn this from a whore, he found he had no desire to be taught it, whatever it was, and he fought valiantly against the chain. A few simple words from Draco calmed his fighting, however; he said “Keep doing that, and I’ll have to put spikes on the inside of the collar.” And that was that. They left before Harry was even permitted to redress.

Draco’s prized whore, it turned out, was a pretty, busty young woman with bright green eyes and short raven hair. The similarities to him were so amazing, that if she hadn’t been clearly flaunting her bosom, Harry certainly would have thought that he had walked into a mirror.

“Beautiful, isn’t she, Harry?” asked Draco, clearly amused at the meeting of the two of them. “Jaina had played out many of my fantasies… she is devoted and affectionate. Before she goes, I should dearly like you to learn all you can from her.”

Jaina barely even flinched when Draco mentioned that he time was almost up, clearly he had been saying this to her for some time, although Harry could not see any reasons for her dismissal. As far as whores went, she was pristine and beautiful, unmarked by time. And if she was as devoted and affectionate as Draco said…then why would he want to get rid of her?

But therein was the issue. This woman looked like Harry Potter. So did he, for that matter, notwithstanding the fact that he was Harry Potter. This fixation that Draco had on him…in fact, that Lucius had on him, was frustratingly bizarre.

He burst out with it all of a sudden, unable to hold it in any longer. “But why Harry Potter?!”

Draco looked at him for a long moment, his expression first surprised, and then bemused. “Would you like to explain it, Jaina?” he prompted, and she began, moving closer to Harry as she did so, distracting him as Draco locked the door and dimmed the lights a little.

“Little Master Draco always was second best to Harry Potter at school…and Master always was the best at everything. Even when Harry Potter began to grow up… He had the media wondering about his sex life, women always clamouring for him…and poor Draco, with his natural charm and beauty, had always to watch on jealously.

Of course…he had to admit a certain attraction; the attraction, maybe, of a predator to his prey. Yes, Harry Potter was his little enemy, but that made it even better. Harry Potter would never, ever accept his advances. So Draco could take him, and he would hate every minute of it. And wouldn’t that be so nice?!”

“Of course,” Draco purred, now sitting in lounge chair, his head propped up on one arm, “I never got the chance to take Potter. He went and got himself killed before I had the chance.”

“So Master Draco has been reenacting all his little fantasies of revenge,” Jaina giggled, now approaching the languishing Slytherin, kneeling beside him and nuzzling into his chest. The sight made Harry ill, and he began to circle the room, let free of his chain, but still wearing his collar.

“That’s where I come in then? I come and play his sick little games?!” Harry circled, paced, but there was no way out. He expected someone to arrest his movement, to make him do something he didn’t want to; instead, when he finally turned back, the two of them were there on the chaise longue, Draco’s robes half open, and Jaina sucking hungrily on one nipple as she rubbed at his still covered crotch. He gagged, then whirled, rushing to the door and trying to claw it open.

This time a hand did stay his movement. Jaina had risen from her task, leaving a relaxed Draco stretched out on the long chair, his hair falling back from his eyes as he tipped his head to watch the two of them.

“Master Draco wants you to learn to please him. You have to understand that that is the only thing keeping you alive right now. And if you fail to please Master Draco…I shall be very upset…”

“More than that, Jaina,” Draco told her, across the distance. “If he fails to please me, I shall punish you. Come now.”

There were tears in Jaina’s eyes as she looked back up to Harry, and it softened his resolve. He couldn’t let her get hurt for his disobedience…and he knew Draco would do it.

“Mmm,” Draco purred, as Jaina led him back across the room without any trouble, “You’re more like him than I thought – such Gryffindor tendencies. Show him, Jaina.”

Harry was tense and queasy. Draco would be as punishing to Jaina as he needed to be to get Harry to do what he wanted…and what he wanted was what Jaina had been doing for him all this time. She was a whore, and ultimately, that would be Harry’s new ‘job’. 

He sat still, watching painfully as Jaina undid the top button of her tight top, letting her voluptuous breasts fall free of their confinement as she kissed at Draco’s throat once more, making her way with little kisses and licks down the length of his supine body.

All the while Draco simply lay there admiring her. He didn’t move to rush her, to urge her in any particular direction, simply let her do as she wished with her mouth: which was move further down, lapping first at one nipple and then the other, and working down to his navel.

Harry shuddered. He didn’t want to watch this, but he had little choice. Disobedience now would only get them hurt… Jaina freed Draco of his robes, revealing the nudity of her Master, arousal jutting proudly. The sight of it made Harry just as ill as he had been the other morning. Draco was a sick, sick man…and Harry could not remember if he had been that disgusting when they had been at school together, or if the war had simply changed him.

Both Draco and Harry watched as Jaina descended, curling her pretty lips around the end of his length. If Harry hadn’t felt so distasteful, or been in the position of apprentice, he might have appreciated just how erotic it was, even just to watch. As it was, he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was expected to be learning from this…display.

Leaving the view for him open, Jaina devoured Draco’s arousal, her plump lips working around him. Harry could see the stretched chin of her mouth bulge occasionally as he tongue rolled against the inside, clearly smothering Draco’s penis…and oh, Harry could see how much Draco was enjoying this. Just as Narcissa had said, the sight of orgasmic pleasure was enough to put anyone off their food; and Draco’s eyes were on him. Harry threw up, violently.

Clearly this behaviour was not pleasing to Draco, who pushed Jaina off him, finding his wand and pointing it in Harry’s direction, so that the pool of vomit disappeared instantly.

“Now, Jaina…I think Potter wants a more intimate demonstration. Don’t you?”

Clearly, Jaina understood some meaning that Harry didn’t in that suggestion, for she approached the surprised Harry on her knees, swallowing his limp member to the base without even a second’s warning.

The very abrupt wet warmness of it made Harry start, backing away from it so that he was released, his eyes wide and overbright with fear.

Below him Jaina laughed, and Draco crowed from his seat, lusty gaze following Harry’s retreat across the room.

“Enough,” Draco ordered, sitting up slightly. “Potter…come here.”

Harry didn’t move, so Draco lifted his wand…and cast the Cruciatus on Jaina.

“Stop it!” Harry barked, moving forwards on unsteady legs, so that he fell onto his hands and knees in front of the other. The screams ended, and Draco lifted his hand, stroking Harry’s hair reassuringly.

“I told you,” he said, soothingly, “I will only hurt her if you disobey. Place your hands on my thighs, Potter.”

Frightened, but compliant none the less, Harry lifted his hands, bringing his palms to rest low on Draco’s thighs, as he had ordered. “Kiss them,” whispered Draco. “Do not fool around, Potter…you will be expected to perform this dance tomorrow night. And it is very important that you impress me.”

Tomorrow night was Lucius Malfoy’s birthday. Harry shuddered, trying to divert his thoughts. But the only other thing he had to focus on was this moment…and that, if anything, was just as bad.

Harry was slow, but he obeyed, bringing his lips onto Draco’s thighs as commanded, kissing them, but not moving higher. The order for this movement came in its own time, and only then did Harry slowly begin to ascend, knowing full well where he was going; what torture would greet him at the conclusion of this exercise.

“That’s it, Potter,” Draco purred, his eyes flickering closed. Beside him, Jaina tensed, watching Harry like a hawk, clearly possessive of her blond Master. Harry knew why. To her, Draco was a God; a beautiful God, whom she had come to love and serve loyally. And she would be sent to an auction like he had been – sold off to anybody who took a fancy to her, and probably someone far less attractive than she had had before.

“Good,” he gasped, leaning back a little further, his legs parting further to make room for Harry. Gently, Harry continued to kiss further up, stopping to breath when there was no further for him to go but to Draco’s cock.

There was a pause then, both of them waiting expectantly. Draco’s resolve broke first. He said “Now…take it into your mouth.” And Harry obeyed, because he had no choice. He closed his eyes as tight as he could, but that couldn’t stop his tears falling, trickling free and running down his cheeks, dripping through Draco’s fine blonde pubic hairs.

Jaina was his encouragement now. She came closer, brushing her fingers through Harry’s hair. “It’s not that hard…just take him onto your tongue. Not too far at first. Remember, you’re new to this.”

Harry did as he was told, but the desire to bite down was great. It was Jaina’s touch to his shoulder that reassured him enough not to. “Don’t bite down. When you’re good at this, using a little tooth is okay. Right now, you just have to ride it out. Hold him in your mouth, curl your lips over your teeth, move him in and out over the top of your tongue. When you feel capable of it, you can move your tongue and let him rest between your lips.”

Without her help, Harry knew that he wouldn’t have been able to do it. Gently he held Draco’s penis, feeling the strange, velvety fabric of his skin on his tongue; heavy and yet also light. He worked Draco’s arousal in and out ever so carefully, trying not to listen to his moans from high above him. When he felt happy that he wasn’t about to do anything foolish, Harry pursed his lips, holding Draco’s prick between them firmly, then moving his tongue along the base, eliciting a louder moan from his Master.

Draco certainly couldn’t hold his pleasure for long. Rather than let Harry off easily, he took hold of the other’s hair, jettisoning his load down Harry’s already tender throat.

Jaina was the one to help Harry from Malfoy’s grip, leading him out of the way and handing him a glass of water, which he drank quickly to relieve his parched throat.

“You will treat him right, won’t you?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Draco as she spoke to Harry.

With a sigh, Harry nodded. “If I have to… I…this isn’t what I envisioned.” He let a half laugh, and Jaina patted him on the shoulder.

“It isn’t what any of us envisioned,” she whispered. “I was studying astrophysics when it happened. But we do what we can do survive…and I love him.”

Harry shook his head. “You must be mad,” he said, softly, “But I can’t blame you for that. After all, you’ve been living with Malfoy all this time.”

Their Master; the Malfoy in question, took very little time to recover, though he did doze a little. Jaina went back to his side, brushing his fingers through his hair as he reined himself in post-orgasm. Harry was not so generous. He waited nervously beside Jaina’s dressing table, his eyes darting around the room and for the first time really seeing it.

It was a woman’s room, and also a boudoir of a sort. The bed was large and elegant, covered in cream satin. There was the chaise longue in which Draco now reclined, a large, round basket chair filled with silk cushions, and a beautifully crafted window-seat, also overwhelming with its piles of pillows.

On one side of the room stretched a long, elegant mirror which reflected its participants; and on the other wall a set of half see-through curtains separated this room from an equally spacious bathroom.

Harry flinched when fingers stroked through his hair, but didn’t move away from them as Draco leant over his shoulder. He could see him in the mirror, flushed from his exertion, his eyes fixed on Harry, his long hair tousled, covering the expression on his face.

“You are so perfect…” purred the blond. “I forget that you aren’t him when I look at you. You even sound like him. You move like him.”

Draco leant closer, his lips gracing Harry’s ear, making him shiver.

“I’m not Harry Potter,” Harry replied, and Draco laughed, kissing again at Harry’s ear because he liked the response he had gained from it.

“How do you know you aren’t Harry Potter?” Draco asked, trailing his fingers against Harry’s throat. “Do you remember your life before the war?”

“I was…” Harry breathed, his head spinning. Malfoy was distracting him, making it difficult to concentrate on what he wanted to say. Something about his kisses was electrifying Harry, much as he despised their effect.

“I was a…” he tried again. But he was lost. Draco waved the perfume bottle once more, discreetly, taking the lobe of Harry’s ear into his lips and working his tongue against it, making the other moan softly.

“Potter, Potter…” Draco purred, kissing down his throat now. “You remember me, don’t you? Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

“Malfoy…I hate you, don’t I?”

“How perceptive, Potter…” Draco murmured, a little surprised by him, but kissing along the curve of his shoulder without pause. “You know that you belong to me, don’t you, Potter? The Dark Lord gave you to me…”

Harry flinched, but didn’t pull away. He turned his head sluggishly. “I don’t belong to anyone,” he complained. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“Are you now?” Draco asked, a glitter of amusement in his grey eyes. He moved around Harry, stroking his fingers down the other man’s front, enjoying the fresh expanse of his skin.

“Yes!” Harry crowed, leaning back. “Savior of the Wizarding World! But you know that, Malfoy.”

“Mmm…” Draco purred, glancing briefly towards Jaina, “Yes I do know that.”

Harry’s coherence was wonderful; the fact that he was slipping so perfectly into the role which Draco had given him the perfect panning out of his desires.

Draco guided Harry to the round chair, and Jaina held it as he slid Harry down into it, letting him sink into the mounds of pillows and sliding in after him, pressing his own naked flesh to Harry’s.

He kissed down Harry’s back now, his eyes fixed on him, smothering his body as Jaina climbed into the chair with them. “Did your Mudblood ever touch you like this, Potter?”

“I…” Harry panted, gasping as a soft hand curled around his length. “Oh…I don’t know what…what you mean.”

Harry was far away, drugged, watching his own body from a distance as he arched into Jaina’s hand, moaning once more. The whore leant down, swallowing Harry again, and this time he didn’t resist. It felt so nice…oh so wonderful.

Enjoying his control, Draco continued to caress Harry’s chest with his fingertips, tweaking his nipples, his lips still working down Harry’s spine. His wasn’t the true work here, Jaina was the busy one, and Draco was enjoying watching the female Potter lookalike devouring his male Potter lookalike. It was his fantasies clashing perfectly. Draco curved his fingers around his length, stroking softly in time with the motions of Jaina’s perfect mouth.

There was no resistance in Harry as Jaina worked him to arousal and further. On and on she worked, Draco caressing his member firmly until together the two men came, falling boneless into slumber under Jaina’s loving care. Silent and relaxed…at least, until the potion and the sleep wore off.


	5. Party Favours

That afternoon, Draco left Harry and Jaina alone together to ‘practice’. After the morning’s ‘exercises’, of which Harry only remembered the first part, they both were tired, so they spent the time talking instead, and Harry learnt a lot more about Jaina than he felt truly comfortable with.

She’d been a virgin at twenty two, an A grade student who was barreling through her exams with honours. And then the war had really kicked off, Muggles were suddenly aware of the Wizarding world, fighting to stay alive as Death Eaters killed recklessly. Institutions that had run for hundreds of years became morgues and homes for suffering people. Exams just weren’t important any more.

When their defenses had crumbled, she’d tried to flee with the others, but the Wizards had rounded up many Muggles, and it was first come first served.

Draco hadn’t been her first Master. She had belonged initially, to Harry’s surprise, to his father, and had been a gift to his son…when she’d been properly broken in, of course.

Harry listened as she told him about her life since, and then went on to babble animatedly about just what Draco liked. It wasn’t a topic that Harry was particularly interested in, but it was better to let her talk than to have her ask questions about him.

That evening, Harry was released back to his rooms but not fed. He didn’t sleep too well; Lucius Malfoy’s birthday loomed ominously.

* * * * *

Once again hooves in the courtyard were Harry’s morning alarm. Looking out the window – discreetly this time – Harry spied on the arriving people.

There were two carriages this morning; one arriving even as the other deposited its passengers by the waiting Malfoys. Harry was not surprised at all to see Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband, whom, as family, greeted the Malfoy’s jovially. 

Still…nothing could squash his hatred for the two of them; particularly Bellatrix, who had been responsible for his Godfather’s death. This hatred flared all the more when Bellatrix returned to the carriage and dragged a young man of about Harry’s age out from inside on the end of a tired looking leather reinforced chain.

There was something familiar about him. Harry could see that he had clearly suffered as many had from losing weight too fast, his skin hanging limply on his frail body. Also, he moved stiffly, as though beaten too severely. Just to close the deal, though, Bellatrix made the man crawl at her feet like a dog.

Even though Harry strained, he could not hear what was spoken, and already the second carriage was clattering to a stop. His eyes still fixed on the young slave, Harry didn’t even notice as a single wizard climbed from the carriage behind and went to greet Lucius.

When he looked back up, the empty carriages were leaving, and the figures were coming indoors. Still, even as he stood at the window another carriage made its way in over the drawbridge. Harry never got the chance to see who was in it, for he was interrupted.

Jaina and one of the Hermione look-a-likes strolled into his room without knocking, surprising Harry in his nudity, so that he quickly wrapped himself up in the red silk dressing gown that had been left for him.

“We’re to dance for the guests at lunch,” Jaina told him, coming across the room, smiling at Harry, lifting a hand to touch his cheek, which oddly Harry did not flinch from. “We have to look as similar as possible…so I’ve brought you these to wear.” She dropped a small pile of silken fabrics onto Harry’s bed and smiled up at him.

Harry raised an eyebrow, reaching to pick up one of the pieces; it was just a length of ribbon with apparently no purpose. He looked up to Jaina, questioningly.

“That’s why Lucy here is going to help you,” Jaina told him. “She’ll do your make up and get you dressed… Please don’t make things too difficult for her.”

Harry sighed, then nodded, and Jaina motioned to the bathroom. “Have a bath…and use the coconut scented oil on your body when you get out,” Jaina told him. I’ll come back as soon as I’m ready.” Jaina disappeared, and Harry allowed himself to be ushered to the bathroom by Lucy.

It was far from a relaxing bath, with Lucy standing over him, insisting on helping him wash his hair, and clearly enjoying it when she rubbed at his body with the hard sponge, making Harry flinch.

Finally the bath was over, and Harry dried himself as quickly as he could, trying to be discreet. This failed, of course, because as soon as he was dry, Lucy, whom he was sure wasn’t all there, took the oil to his body, rubbing it in until he shone like platinum.

The next bit, apparently, was the make up. Now…Harry had never worn make up before… Why would he, after all? It was more than a little embarrassing to be placed in front of a mirror, Lucy hovering over him as she painted him.

Heavy black paint and powder accentuated his eyes, making the green of his eyes look fluorescent. Dark paint around his lips, bright upon them, with a little oil on top to bring out the shine gave Harry’s mouth the same look as a painted doll; a little flush patted onto the very tops of his pale cheeks. A pair of tweezers and again the black paint brought out his eyelashes.

It was only when his make up was done that Jaina arrived, looking elegant and yet half-naked in her assortment of gold and red silks. Her skin was as shiny as Harry’s, the colour of it only slightly different from correct nourishment. Her hair was loose and yet shiny, as Harry knew his would be when it was dry. And she had the same make up on that Harry did, so that between them they looked like two toys off the same production line.

“Thank you Lucy,” Jaina said, crossing the distance between them with the grace of a dancer. “I shall finish him. You’re dismissed.”

Lucy tittered and disappeared, leaving the two of them quite alone.

“I know Master Draco will appreciate this,” Jaina said, softly, moving to Harry’s side. “He knows what he wants, but he isn’t an artist.”

Harry nodded, coming back to his feet slowly. “Um…” he said, eyeing Jaina’s ‘clothing’ worriedly. “Is that all we’re wearing?”

Laughing, Jaina went to the bed, motioning for Harry to join her. “Yes, it’s all we’re wearing, Harry,” she told him. “Lucius Malfoy is an impatient man…if you wear too many clothes, he shall insist on you getting out of them entirely. Wear something that barely covers you in the first place, and the likeliness is you won’t have to disrobe halfway through your dance.”

 

Sighing, Harry allowed Jaina to dress him. First, the silver chain that he had worn yesterday, attached to the collar at his throat, but also attached to the center of a rather uncomfortable silk thong. Hanging from this were ribbons of silk that whispered across Harry’s back and sides. A further set of ribbons were wound around his arms, fixed at one end to his collar, and at his wrists tied in place.

There were still several ribbons left in place on the bed; Jaina explained that these were for dancing with, and Harry could fold one up in each of his hands and let them fall free like kite strings whenever he was ready to.

Dressed finally, Harry allowed himself to test out the movements of his clothing. Though he stretched and twisted, they never fell out of place; and only once did he ‘fall out’ of his thong and have to quickly cease his practice.

The morning wore on after that, and Harry found himself talking with Jaina, though Harry found himself being asked more and more questions as he failed to engage her on other topic.

“Where do you come from?” was one of them, and Harry explained that he had been born in Oxfordshire, and had moved to Essex when he was quite young; which was technically true.

The second question she managed to slip in was a little more worrisome, but still no problem for Harry, “What did you do before…before all this?” and Harry improvised, telling her that he had just joined the army when the war started, and had fought against the Wizards. Jaina said that this explained his grace and strength…his desire to survive, which she rarely saw nowadays.

Her third question was asking about what had happened to his family and friends. Rather than answer, Harry remained silent, and Jaina, embarrassed for having upset Harry, let him be.

Lunchtime finally came, and the two of them descended, waiting outside the main doors for the meal to end. They could not see inside…but Harry could hear many voices, and knew that guests had arrived not only from the carriages, but by other means too. Who would be here? Many wizards he knew, there was no doubt. He hoped he could keep control of himself. He hoped…oh, he hoped that Voldemort wouldn’t be there.

Finally a bell rang inside the room, and a faint music rose up. Harry stayed where he was, and Jaina disappeared through the doorway, dancing away among the guests. No more than two minutes later, Jaina danced back through, and Harry found himself propelled out among them; out into the music.

The dance was frightening. He whirled, knowing that he was being watched, but not being able to see the watchers in his motions. He let loose his ribbons, stopping in step to take up one of his postures. Only then did one of the people close to him say. “It’s not the same slave!” and Harry danced away again as conversation bubbled underneath the music.

Harry twisted and whirled – and then posed, changed direction and moved again, all the time fluid. The music rose, and he did too, up onto the tips of his toes. It sped up, and he twirled and turned on the spot, ribbons spiraling around and around him until he came to a stop, dropping his head, letting the dizziness swim through him.

The music stopped, then abruptly started again and Harry moved, though he felt ill, still not seeing anyone around him except for the moving, blurred figure of Jaina as she came back out and danced with him. They twisted like songbirds dancing together on the breeze, them finally came together, gasping in soft breaths as the music stopped.

There was no clapping. After all, they weren’t performers, they were slaves. Still feeling dizzy, Harry found himself propelled to Draco’s side, where the two of them knelt beside him.

As the haze that filled his head faded, Harry listened to the voices around him. There were many congratulations and questions, all in voices that Harry didn’t recognize, except of course those of the Malfoys and Bellatrix.

Slowly he lifted his head, letting his eyes scan the table. There certainly were people here that he knew. At one end of the table, looking particularly cowed, was Cornelius Fudge. Besides him there was Peter Pettigrew, the Crabbes and Goyles, Percy Weasley; the traitor, and one figure who made Harry particularly tremble – Severus Snape.

Snape was wearing Harry’s robes, looking straight down at him with dark, powerful eyes. Still, Harry met his gaze unflinchingly, and this certainly surprised Snape, who turned his eyes up to Draco, then back down to Harry questioningly. For a moment his eyes seemed just the slightest bit wider, and Harry saw it coming mere seconds before it hit him. Snape was using Legilimency on him!

Quickly Harry occluded, bringing the thoughts of his last two days here to the surface. He thought about dancing for Lucius the other day, and about his ‘lesson’ with Draco and Jaina. Having had enough of such thoughts, Snape let him be, though Harry noticed his eyes darting back to him often as he tried to distract himself by talking with Narcissa.

Draco was watching Harry too, though Harry never noticed. He watched the way that Harry glowered at Snape when he wasn’t looking. After a few moments, Draco leant forwards, soft lips brushing Harry’s ear as he whispered to him. “Is there something concerning yourself and Professor Snape that I should know about, Potter?”

Harry started, diverting his attention back to Draco as Snape, always having had keen ears, turned to look towards the sound of his name.

“No,” Harry replied, equally softly. “He just…just looked at me in a strange way. I’m sorry, Master…”

“It is not me that you should be apologizing to,” Draco replied, sipping at his glass of post-lunch brandy. “Go on then!” he pressed, and Harry rose tentatively to his feet. 

Most of the people at the table were looking at him again now. Feeling the eyes, Harry made his way around the table with his head low. When he reached Snape, he knelt beside him, lowering his head to the floor. Submitting to him…to this man. This murderer! It was difficult, and yet he did it out of necessity.

Snape brought his hand down, touching Harry’s feather soft hair, and Harry shuddered in revulsion.

“Don’t you have anything to say, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked, his voice as silky and evil as ever. Again, Harry felt a wave of ice hit him. He was glad he wasn’t wearing enough clothes to conceal his wand. If he had brought it, he would certainly have blown his cover by now.

“Well?” Snape asked again, his tone a little impatient. There was a clamour of soft voices, but still Harry didn’t respond. Snape turned his attention elsewhere, briefly, and then nodded. “I shall try not to damage him too severely,” he said, and he rose to his feet.

Damage? Damage who? Him? Harry pushed himself back to his feet, his head high, his eyes rolling, scrambling back from the imposing black figure that stood before him, tripping over Narcissa’s gown and then stumbling away.

There was a shout from further up the table, and then another yell, and Harry found himself wrapped up in strong arms that held him tight before he knew quite what was happening.

“I should appreciate cooperation, rather than a repeat performance, Potter,” Snape hissed, making known the owner of the arms that held him. Harry was propelled away through a side door, into a small, bare antechamber, and thrown down onto the polished floor.

“How…?” Snape said, his voice full of bitter confusion. Severus Snape did not like to be left in the dark about anything.

Harry decided that he should be playing dumb. “What?” he said, trying to sound as though he truly didn’t understand the reason for Snape’s agitation.

“You may have occluded against me,” Snape growled, “But I can still see through your pretences, Potter. So tell me how: how did you do it?!”

Shaking his head, Harry stepped away, his eyes bright. “You’re confusing me for someone else, you senile old man!”

The answer to that was a slap the face which was so hard it brought Harry back to the ground again.

“Enough of your cheek, Potter. If that doesn’t give you away then nothing will!”

Harry knew better than to try to deny it after that, and Snape circled him, his dark eyes full of his fury. “Are you going to tell them? Turn me in and earn your glory?” Harry asked, bitterly.

“Of course not,” Snape replied, evenly. “No. I will…I will simply have to take my recompense for what Draco owes me. After he’s had his fun, of course...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Harry bit, as Snape continued his pacing.

“You’ll see…” Snape answered, cryptically. “But first…I asked you to tell me how you did it, did I not? How you managed to make them all think you dead.”

“No,” Harry answered, coldly. “I don’t have time to tell you, and I wouldn’t if I did. You’re a murdering son of a bitch Snape. If I had my wand, I’d kill you where you stood.”

“Ah yes…” Snape said, slowly. “Well, if that is how you want to play it, Potter, then so be it. I’ll play my part, and you may play yours.” Snape laughed, hollowly, making Harry’s hair stand on end, his eyes narrowing. “But I will get my own way,” finished Snape, “Sooner, rather than later.”

Draco opened the door to the antechamber at that moment, stepping inside, his eyes going from Harry to Snape and back again. “Have you punished him, Severus? It’s just…my father would like our attendance in the sun lounge for his present-giving.”

“Certainly,” Snape replied, his eyes shining maliciously as he glanced towards Harry. “I do hope that Mr. Potter will be joining in the…celebrations?”

“Oh yes…” Draco replied, moving over to curl his fingers around the chain as it crossed Harry’s collarbone. “Potter’s been practicing for his part.”

The look that Snape gave him made him shudder anew. It was lecherous and sickening. Harry knew all too well what Draco’s plans were, and what part he played in them; but Snape’s reminder certainly brought the reality of it back home to him.

His life was hanging in balance. Snape knew his secret, by some circumstances that still left Harry confused as to their exact nature. It had all happened so very, very fast. An hour ago he had just been a common Muggle whore. Tonight, he could be Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-Again, and it would all be over. He hated immensely the fact that it was Severus Snape who held his life by this thread, and thoroughly despised the fact that he seemed to be enjoying it.

Lucius’ birthday party turned out to be a worse ordeal than even Harry had supposed.

The first part of the birthday celebrations having passed, it was now time for the gift giving. Those with gifts of a dubious nature waited while the more genial of presents were delivered to Lucius. These included a couple of new slaves (Lucius Malfoy ran one of the breeding centers, it turned out) and some very rare and interesting items; the strangest of which were a painting of Salazar Slytherin that only spoke Parseltongue, and a tiny silver cup.

As the mood changed, and the guests got drunker, so did the more bizarre presents be delivered. There were beautifully crafted silver chains and shackles, a set of studded paddles from Bellatrix, and some items which even Harry could not identify. Severus Snape gave Lucius a case full of potions, all of which came with their own instructions inscribed upon them. Lucius didn’t look at them; apparently this was a usual gift.

Draco’s time soon arrived, and he first handed Lucius the gift of his robes. He explained how Harry had made them; that he was a talented embroiderer, and Severus chose that moment to ask if Harry was the man who had embroidered his own robes.

As prompted, Harry rose in his place where he had been watching the proceedings, turning to examine Snape’s clothes as though he had never seen him before. “Yes, my Lord,” he said, softly. “My name was Emrys when I embroidered those robes. They were my last.”

“Ah,” Severus purred, “So their value goes up. Brilliant workmanship, Lucius…won’t you show us yours?”

Obediently, Lucius rose to his feet, slipping off his old robes to whistles and catcalls, and replacing them with the silk embroidered replacements. Harry could see the designs he’d worked in all shimmering independently. He had to admit that they looked beautiful, nevermind who they were on. 

“I do hope I’ll be getting a set for my birthday,” Bellatrix said, from Lucius’ side, clearly admiring the robes just as everyone else was.

“He has some talent, certainly,” Lucius purred, admiring the robes himself.

“Sewing isn’t his only talent, father,” Draco said, his eyes moving from Lucius back to Harry again. “That is…the other part of your present.”

Harry tilted his head up, swiveling it towards Draco. Surely he didn’t mean…? He couldn’t do that…not to Lucius Malfoy. He lurched backwards, and Severus said “Watch him,” and Draco caught hold of him around the waist, pulling Harry down into his lap and holding him tightly as he half attempted to struggle, and then calmed.

 

“He’s certainly got some nerve,” Bellatrix giggled from her place by her husband. “If you just used a little Cruciatus on him, Draco, it would go a long way.”

“I have a better idea to teach him humility,” Snape said, and the pure malice in his voice was enough to cow Harry.

Draco let him go so that he slid onto his knees on the floor, and though he lifted his head defiantly, he could not help being the slightest bit afraid as Severus approached him with his wand raised.

“Imperio!” he said, and though crows of laughter and suggestions erupted around them, Harry heard only the rushing of silence through his ears and a long pause as he was trapped inside the grip of the spell.

He knew what Snape’s revenge for his disobedience would be now…for if Harry broke free of the Imperious like he was inclined to, then he would be revealed. Snape knew this…he knew that Harry would have to play along, no matter what he asked him to do. And what would Snape ask of him?

‘Undress’ came the order, through the silence in his head. Harry suspected it had come from the birthday boy himself, and though Harry knew he could resist it, he let the impulsion carry him away, trying not to care as his hands moved over his trance-held body, stripping away the ribbons until only the chain dangled loosely over his naked chest.

Though Harry could hear nothing, he could see the faces of the people around him; laughing at him, talking to each other and calling more suggestions Severus’ way. Their scorn was all too clear…and Harry felt the strong urge to break free and just run. But he had to stay. He mustn’t fight the Imperious, whatever he did. And Snape was smirking at him in that horrible, superior way; making him feel about an inch tall.

The next order was ‘Undress Lucius Malfoy,’ which was becoming dubious as to what Harry would willingly do. He let the suggestion control him, though, let himself float across the room like a cloud and begin the task of mechanically undressing the elder blond.

When Lucius was naked and shining like a god, a final order came, ‘Get onto your knees and grovel’.

So Harry obeyed, crumpling to his knees at Lucius’ feet, kissing at the ends of his toes and groveling pathetically.

As he remained like that, so the noise began to crash around his ears again – all the things that the wizards around him were saying sounding loud on his sensitive ears. He was shivering from the weight of eyes upon his naked body, and he knew full well that he had little time left before the final indignity would come.

It was at that moment that the slave boy from earlier suddenly clambered to his feet, rushing straight towards him. “No!” cried the slave, “Not Harry! Please don’t do it to Harry!”

There was a terrific screech of fury from Bellatrix, and she rose to her feet and screamed “Crucio!” at the young man, so that he fell to the ground twitching and screaming. All this frightened Harry, who turned towards it, pressing his back to Lucius’ unmoving legs.

“Longbottom still misbehaving?” came the cultured drawl from above him. Harry’s jaw fell, and Snape, the only one still looking at him, gave him a scathing look and pointed his wand towards him discreetly, so that his tongue snapped up against the roof of his mouth, closing it for him.

“He thinks Draco’s new slave is the real thing,” Bellatrix explained, calling over the yells of the boy on the floor so that Lucius could hear her. “But I never thought that he would be so foolish.”

Finally the screaming stopped, and Harry looked towards the shaking mass of his old friend, recognizing him now. Poor Neville…what he must have been through under the ‘care’ of Bellatrix all this time. He watched as Lestrange came forwards, took Neville by the chain at his throat and dragged him back to her seat.

“Look at Potter,” somebody said, and then someone else laughed, and Harry turned away, hiding his face towards the floor. He felt the spell that Snape had cast release his tongue.

“Let’s see his talents then, shall we, Draco?” Lucius asked, his attention clearly returning to his presents.

Draco said something that Harry couldn’t quite hear over the sounds of the people around him, and then Lucius said “Enough!” loudly enough to quiet everybody. Draco repeated himself.

“Show him, Potter. And this time, remember…if you mess up, you will be punished like Longbottom.”

Harry understood that warning all too well; and now that the excitement was over, he felt everyone settling down to concentrate upon him again. Certainly Lucius Malfoy’s eyes were boring down at him. He’d resettled himself in his chair, his arms stretched out to either side of his head, unabashedly flaunting his enormous arousal for the entire room to see.

“Lucius always was a show off,” said somebody else, and a few people laughed.

“Go on, boy,” said Lucius, “What are you waiting for? Christmas?” This elicited more laughter from the room and Harry lifted his head, pressing one kiss to Lucius’ knee.

It was frightening. Harry had to submit, but he had to do it off his own back. There were no commands, no orders to do ‘this’ or ‘that’. He had to just do it.

Slowly he rose up to an upright kneeling position, sliding close so that he half-slotted underneath Lucius’ chair, in between his legs. He mustn’t think about what he was doing or he’d lose his nerve. If he didn’t stall too long, then he would be finished in no time…and maybe then he would be allowed to eat.

Tense, Harry pressed his lips to the inside of Lucius’ knee, then began his movement up, lifting his body as he did so, under the sharp eyes of their watchers. Every touch of his lips and tongue was like an acupuncture needle through the heart. This was Lucius Malfoy…and he had to pleasure him with his mouth.

But if he didn’t, he would be put under Cruciatus, and sooner or later, somebody would see the strangeness of his recovery speed.

“That’s it, Potter, you filthy little whore,” Lucius urged, and Harry tried not to hear him as he pursued his task. Sooner or later, just working on his thighs would not be enough. It came sooner, as his nose accidentally brushed Lucius’ proud erection, making him half-moan half-laugh.

A few other people laughed as Harry changed his position, revealing himself intimately as he leant over Lucius. Don’t think about it. One day, you’ll kill these people… Just don’t think about it.

It was the only way that he could survive it. Blocking all thought, practicing his Occlumency upon himself, Harry simply dropped, taking Lucius’ straining member between his lips and sliding it in only as far as he felt comfortable with. It filled his mouth before he’d managed even half of it, and it could not have tasted fouler. 

Whilst Draco had been mostly clean, making it easy on Harry for his first time, Lucius was a musky, powerfully scented man. His taste was just as bad, turning Harry’s empty stomach. Quickly, Harry endeavoured to swallow away the foul taste, but Lucius took the workings of his muscles as an invitation, shoving himself in further so that the head of his penis gagged Harry and burned his throat, making him choke and splutter.

Lucius deserved to be bitten for that; but Harry didn’t bite, he only moved back off him, gasping in huge cold mouthfuls of air. Around him, the Death Eaters laughed, and Harry, trembling, lifted his hand and rubbed around the collar at his poor throat.

“Shall we try again?” Lucius invited, giving Harry a sardonic and yet dangerous look. Harry knew that look. He took another deep breath, then moved back up – this time tenderly touching the head with the tip of his tongue, and then taking only that into his mouth, sucking and licking. Almost instantly his mouth filled with the taste of come; Lucius was enjoying this immensely.

Harry knew better than to keep doing that, though. After a moment he began to move over him again – and this time Lucius did not thrust down his throat at the first hesitation. Harry took him in tenderly, keeping his teeth out of the way as best he could while his mouth was so stretched.

Above him Lucius moaned, and Harry could hear nothing else from the room as he persisted, tightening and relaxing his mouth around Lucius’ length as he tried to get used to the width of him.

It was difficult, when he eventually tried, to move his tongue around the member; so he settled for sucking instead, which was considerably easier. Ever so slowly he allowed a little more of Lucius into his mouth – but when sickly seed dribbled down the render palette of his throat, tickling him, Harry ceased his persistence.

Frozen just so, he worked Lucius’ arousal diligently. But Lucius wasn’t as easy as Draco…it seemed to Harry that he would never ever come, and his jaw started to ache before he even began to tremble, losing himself finally to his moans.

Still Harry went on, and just as he thought he could go on no further, he felt all of Lucius body tense through and hot seed spurted inside his mouth, scorching his throat, making him gag and draw back.

A firm hand at the back of his head, clutching in his hair in time with his spasms, suddenly acted as a restraint; holding him in place as Lucius emptied himself violently. Harry gagged and swallowed, eyes rolling as he struggled to breathe through the thick come and thrusting cock that filled his mouth – and then finally he was let free, and fell down onto his hands and knees, gasping in life-saving breaths.

Oddly, he found himself ignored after that. Lucius recovered, and he was left there to recover too, even as the talk around them bubbled up once more. He didn’t listen, he didn’t even try to understand a word of it. All he knew was that he hurt; inside and out.

After ten minutes, in which Lucius redressed and began to speak to his friends, ignoring Harry, he crawled back to Draco’s side, curling up tremulously by his feet, much to the amusement of Severus Snape.


	6. Interlude - Neville's Story

This isn’t a chapter, it’s an interlude. I was mean to Neville before, and I thought, for posterity, I’d be just a little more mean to him, and have a five minute break from pure solid plot.

* * * * *

Some might have complained that having Bellatrix Lestrange as their Mistress was possibly a fate worse than death. At first, it had been, but Neville knew better now. After all, hadn’t it been Bellatrix who had put his parents to peace and let Neville bury them? Hadn’t it been Bellatrix who had helped him to finally learn to do something properly? He always had been good with his hands.

When Hogwarts had fallen, poor Neville had been too slow to get out of the way of the arriving Death Eaters. He’d been captured early, and rather than suffer needlessly, had allowed it.

With the war at its full height, the Death Eaters had been busy. Bellatrix, having had her eyes on Neville for a long time, had claimed him right from the beginning…but immediately, she had no use for him. She placed him into the care of a man-whore who had been servicing her for some time (as her husband, being insane, was also incompetent).

Finally things began to settle down. Bellatrix was not at battle so often, though she did enjoy a little torture; and in his time with Joey, Neville had settled down. He had resisted a lot at first…but this had resulted in starvation, for Joey was not a very patient man. And so he went to Bellatrix easily; and she taught him what Joey could not.

And he became good at it. 

With his hands alone he could bring even the most oblivious woman to blinding ecstasy, and with his lips…there was little beyond him. And yes…it was weird…at first. But Bellatrix was clever; she conditioned him to believe that he had to be good at it, that he must always improve.

So that was what he did. Always he would try to be better than before. Bellatrix would invite him into bed with her when she slept with others, she would lend him to her friends when they were between slaves.

Neville began to forget about the world before. He forgot about his friends, school, Voldemort. This twisted new reality was all he knew, unless someone reminded him, like the day they told him that Harry Potter was dead, on which news he became distraught, and would not move for the rest of the day. 

One day, Bellatrix had come home with blood on her hands, and Neville had licked it away as she told him what had happened. It had been the raid on St. Mungo’s; the last great resistance stronghold. Many had died that day. 

Bellatrix told him about how she was too late to stop his parents being grievously injured, but she had nursed them as they died, and brought them back to Neville so that he could bury them in peace.

He cried as he dug their graves and rolled them in, and when he was done, his Mistress took him to bed and kissed away the blood, sweat and tears from his trembling body.

Nothing else had interrupted their equilibrium. Not until the party on Lucius Malfoy’s birthday, when a young Harry Potter look-a-like caught Neville’s eye, and broke a little of the spell that had settled over him.

“Who is that boy?” he asked, in one of the few moments when his Mistress hadn’t spoken. He was dancing for them at a time, and to Neville he was a tall, graceful blur; moving too fast for him to really see who he was. Bellatrix only smiled and laughed, and said “You’ve never seen him before,” and that was that.

Later, when something had occurred at the table, the boy stood up, and he was ethereally beautiful; all black hair falling over green eyes. From his angle at Bellatrix’ feet, he could see the scar standing out on the boy’s forehead as clear as day. It brought it all back fast, and as the boy (for surely he must be a boy, he looked so young; soft skinned and bright eyed) left with Severus, he hissed to Bellatrix, “That’s Harry Potter, isn’t it?” And Bellatrix only smiled at him distantly.

Afterwards, at the gift-giving ceremony, Neville sat thinking about things, trying to remember. He repeated the name over and over in his head; and as he repeated it, more and more seemed to spring to mind. He remembered Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, Luna…his mind was an unexplored library full of books that had become dusty with misuse.

So when a pale and frightened looking Harry was ordered to do what Neville had so long learnt to do, he spoke up.

This, apparently, was a bad thing, and he was punished.

“Don’t worry,” she told him, darkly, when the evening’s festivities were over, and Harry was removed, “I’ll make sure you find out the truth before we go, my little treasure.”

That night, Bellatrix Lestrange did not let Neville join her in bed. She slept all alone, with Neville tied in the corner, and did not even look at him when she went to breakfast.


	7. First Time

Whatever Snape was planning to do, it did not materialise. Through the next few days Harry was on his toes. And though he danced and pleased Draco every night, he spent the days learning from Jaina just how to apply make up and oils, and dress to take full advantage of the natural, fighter’s grace of his body.

He was well fed. In the mornings and afternoon he had a proper meal, and at dinner he sat beside Draco accepting table scraps, and was rewarded by a plate full of leftovers when his nightly task was complete.

Of course, the guests lingered, seemingly unwilling to leave. Harry saw much in the way of dinner capers; many of which he disapproved of immensely, but most that he downright hated.

The second day there was a sickening display of wizard ‘superiority’. A single Muggle woman, previously blinded, and looking thin and tortured was led into the room. Peter explained that the Dark Lord had had him bring her. She had been suffering for a long time, he said; and now her time was up.

The dinner guests were each given a small dagger, and Harry knew full well what was going to happen. He pressed back behind Draco’s chair and hid his eyes as the woman fell from one side of the circle to the other, crying out in pain when the blades sliced and stabbed her. 

Harry closed his eyes as tight as he could and held his hands over his ears…but it filled his mind none the less: with memories of Voldemort’s tortures lining up in his head, forcing him to remember. He began to cry then; and when it was over, Draco had Jaina remove him. He had nightmares that night, and woke up Jaina with his screaming.

She seemed nervous, and told him that he’d been screaming out a name; “Ginny,” and asked him who she was. Harry told her never to speak that name again; and hoped that she would obey. If Draco found out…

The third night was as bad as the second. They had two Muggles fight for them that day; both of them armed and protected by armour. That didn’t save them – for they were both sentenced to death. Lucius informed them that the one left alive at the end would get released. So they fought to the death…only the two men’s injuries were so bad that they both died. Harry sobbed through this one too.

That night, Draco took Harry to bed with him, and stroked his hair and held him to his chest. It was gentle and soothing, but Harry didn’t sleep until the morning, when Draco had risen and left. Far too tired to do otherwise, he slept soundly.

On the fourth night, Harry found himself left out of the dinner proceedings; and though he didn’t get fed that night, he was left in the dark antechamber with Bellatrix’s slave. It was intentional; he was sure of it, because Neville came straight to him when the door closed and touched his face.

“Harry…?” he asked. “Oh, Harry! You’re okay! I was worried!”

Harry didn’t know quite what to do. Did he tell Neville that he wasn’t Harry Potter, and break his heart, make him slip back into whatever routine that Bellatrix had set him upon, and potentially ruin his chances of ever retreating from his shell again? He could tell that the other was hanging on his word, pinning all his hopes on Harry truly being Harry.

And if he did tell Neville that he was Harry, could he really get away with it? He sighed. He supposed he could tell Draco that he was playing along, because the other man was clearly upset.

He moved forwards, tentatively, and Neville flinched, but Harry placed his hand on his shoulder, making his decision. “Yes, I’m okay, Neville,” he told him, ever so softly. Neville beamed, his eyes shining.

“I had forgotten you…I’d forgotten everything! I don’t know how, but when I saw you it all came back! Harry! You’re going to save us, aren’t you, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry told him, smiling. It was amazing how much better he felt when he finally said it. He knew that it was true, because he could feel it; and it made him positively glow inside. “You just have to keep going, Neville. It’s going to take a long time.” 

“I know you can do it, Harry,” Neville was holding him in a tight hug now, sobbing into his shoulder, and Harry hugged back. And it felt good…because Neville was his friend, and he was alive. That was all that mattered to him now.

Neville was only just remembering things, and Harry helped him with a soft voice, letting him get his memory back about key items, until he was almost fluent once more. Just as they were discussing Dumbledore’s Army, Draco came in, his eyes fixed on Harry, ignoring Neville as he came into recover him.

Harry slept in his own bed that night, and at the morning he was called from his breakfast to Draco’s side; where he was having a heated argument with Bellatrix.

“Your slave poisoned his mind! He remembers everything!”

Raising an eyebrow, Draco looked down at Harry, who was knelt at his feet, with his head placed on his Master’s thigh. He said “Does this really look like Harry Potter to you? Look at him, Bella. Do you remember Potter? He was spirited and rebellious. This…this is just a Muggle.”

“Oh yes?!” Bellatrix snapped, clearly hellish with insane fury. “Well I demand he be tested with Veritaserum, then! Neville told me that he was Harry!”

Suddenly there was a dark voice at the doorway, and everyone’s attention turned towards Snape as he entered. “I shouldn’t think that would be necessary,” Severus told them, moving into the room. “Is there any particular reason that you told Bellatrix’s slave that you were Harry Potter, boy?”

Harry’s green eyes were fixed on Snape. He lowered them submissively and ducked his head down. “I told him because he was clearly upset, Masters and Mistresses. He was on the edge of sanity…and I didn’t…didn’t want to be trapped in a room with a madman. I’ve seen it before, and it’s not pretty. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

The word ‘madman’ had been the wrong word to use, however, for Bellatrix’ eyes had glazed over, and she launched herself at Harry, swiping his cheek with her nails before Snape managed to tug her away. “He’s lying!” she snapped. “He’s lying! He’s Harry Potter! Just let me test him and you’ll see! Lying little bastard!”

Snape tugged her away, and Harry sank back to press himself firmly to Draco’s side.

“Bella,” he told her, firmly. “Bella, Harry Potter despises me, does he not? Let me test him. If he is Harry Potter, then he won’t let me touch him. He’d rather die.” He stroked her shoulder, and she calmed down, nodding, her feral eyes turning back to Harry.

“Do it, then… Do it, Snape.” It was clear that she was sure that nobody would let Snape touch them. He was unattractive and smelt distinctively of old potion, after all. Draco’s slave would fail this test.

Draco gave Harry a little nudge, making him move away from his chair. Still afraid of Bellatrix; his cheek dripping with blood, Harry cowered where he was and waited as Snape’s feet came closer.

Oh yes…but he despised Snape. He hated him with every ounce of his being. But when his life was on the line…when it was a case of do as he was told or be revealed to be Harry Potter; he would take the doing what he was told, just as it had been with the Imperious curse.

He stayed still, reining in his hatred and using every ounce of Gryffindor bravery and courage to stay where he was and look submissive. When Snape stopped in front of him, he tilted his head back, looking up with bright green eyes. “My Lord?” he asked, and hating it; though he showed every sign of compliance and geniality.

It was just Snape. Just Snape. Just Dumbledore’s murderer; a man who had secret plans for Harry that he didn’t want to know about… Just a man who had ruined Harry’s childhood and made learning the important skill of Occlumency almost impossible… He was just a man who Harry hated more than Voldemort himself.

But if there was a time and a place for that hatred, it wasn’t now. He knew that Snape would get his rewards when Harry finally overthrew the Dark Lord; but he wouldn’t live long enough to do that if he couldn’t keep his identity secret right now.

Snape motioned with his hand. “Stand up, whore,” and Harry rose obediently, trying to look passive instead of defiant; keeping his eyes away from Snape’s.

“You want me to kiss you, don’t you, Harry?” Snape asked, and Harry let his eyes flick up only so briefly, and nodded the affirmative. “Answer! Don’t just throw your head around, Potter!”

Harry quickly spat out a “Yes Sir,” and Snape’s hand came up to the back of his neck, closing firmly.

“This is impressive work, Draco,” Severus told him, studying Harry’s face. “He’d never done this before he came to you, had he? And already so obedient…! It’s amazing how easy it is to convince a broken man that what you want is what he wants. One week, Draco. Really, well done!” Snape looked at Bellatrix and smirked, making her sneer at him. It was clear that he was ridiculing her own lack of control over Neville; whom Severus had made it clear to her about on numerous occasions, was nothing more than a squib.

Tense, but still outwardly looking obsequious, Harry kept his eyes on Snape’s lapel. His neck was stiff, and he knew that Snape could feel it. He’d be able to judge just how far he could push Harry before he lost the last vestiges of control.

“Kiss him already, Snape,” Bellatrix clamoured, her nails digging into her palms as she glared. Smiling, snake-like, Severus dipped his head and took Harry’s lips into his own.

At first there was no reaction, and then Draco leant forwards and said “Remember how I taught you, Harry. This is no different.” But it wasn’t as easy for him to kiss Snape. His mouth tasted foul – like rotting teeth, and his tongue, pressing against Harry’s lips insistently, was just as slimy as his hair. It took all of his courage to open his mouth, and more to actually kiss back. Somehow he did it, and he was relieved when Snape pulled away from him.

Bellatrix was watching, her dark eyes full of fury. It was the first thing Harry saw when he glanced up quickly, and he turned his eyes towards Snape before she could see him looking.

“Does that please you, Master?” he asked, coquettishly, his head tilted to one side, though he was far more tempted to spit and try and clean out his mouth from the foul taste that still lingered there. He had to do it, or he would fail now, when he’d already sacrificed so much.

“It pleases me,” said Snape, giving Harry a lingering look of victory before turning his eyes towards Bellatrix. “That is,” he finished, “If it pleases you, Bella?”

Snorting, Bellatrix merely turned and left, and Harry was allowed to leave too, hurrying back to his abandoned breakfast.

* * * * *

Further into the week, Draco informed him that he could wander the house as he wished. Harry understood. The drawbridge was up whenever he went out into the courtyard, and he smiled wistfully, knowing that everyone had left. Technically, he could lower it just as easily as Draco or Lucius, but he had not even glanced at his wand since he’d arrived here. 

It was silly. Draco Malfoy was currently alone in the house, and Harry knew full well that if it came to a fight, he could easily overpower him. But he felt that he had to stay. There was something he had to do before he could leave…and really, sacrificing his pride once a day was really not a terrible life, as he had once thought it would be.

So Harry took full advantage of his allowance to wander the house. He went in and out of rooms, but never touched a thing. That was…until he found it.

It was sitting on top of a plump, purple, velveteen pillow, looking for all the world as though it belonged to some king. Harry considered it for a long time, his eyes sharp, his heartbeat racing.

It looked exactly as Harry remembered it; a slender, silver cup made out of the finest materials, shining with polish, and glittering temptingly. Facing the room, as clear as day, was the seal of Helga Hufflepuff; a silver and black badger rampant on a gold field. It looked so much more beautiful in real life, and Harry stepped towards it.

Instantly he could feel his throat constricting. He tried to breathe, but it was quite impossible, and he gagged and gasped, stumbling back. No sooner was he away from the cup, but the restriction ceased, and he drew in a few frightened breaths. It was clear that the cup was well protected, and Harry did not want to get himself killed quite yet. He would have to think about how to get to the cup; that was all.

The rest of the day is spent in the courtyard, under the pleasant summer sun. Harry sighed happily, leaned back onto the warm cobbles and opened his eyes to look up into the blue sky. He could see so very far that it almost made him dizzy. It had been a long time since he’d looked up at the sky just to see it. He smiled, closing his eyes and dozing.

When he opened his eyes again, Draco was standing above him, his silver hair tousled, falling over his eyes as he looked down at Harry. Slowly Draco knelt down over him, and Harry didn’t try to resist as the other settled on his stomach and traced his fingers over Harry’s face. Draco was cold…or perhaps it was just that Harry was warm. He found himself shivering slightly.

“Why?” he asked, suddenly; his voice ever so soft. “When did you fall in love with your enemy?”

Draco looked taken aback. His blue eyes widened slightly as he looked up, and then he slowly smiled and closed them, looking so thoroughly relaxed that Harry tilted his head slightly to one side.

“I didn’t fall in love with him. He’s an obsession. You, on the other hand…are something quite different.” And Draco leant down, and brushed his lips over Harry’s.

When he drew back, Harry was perplexed. “What am I then?” he asked.

“A possession,” Draco answered, and he kissed Harry again, silencing him. 

So it hadn’t been love he’d seen. It was lusty appreciation. It was so hard to tell the difference… But if Draco knew that he was Harry Potter; if they were on the same level, with the same powers, and they had the same footing, would Draco try to woo him or rape him? Harry supposed the second – but Draco had surprised him before.

Draco kissed him for longer this time before he drew back, his lips bright from the kiss. Harry was breathless, and in Draco’s eyes he knew full well that he was beautiful. It was strange…after all, this was his body, and Draco coveted it.

Knowing he was quite doomed, Harry let himself relax. Draco’s fingers explored his body as they had not until this moment, and he leant forwards to lick and breathe into Harry’s ear as he did it. His breathing was harsh and deep, and Harry could feel through his robes the hardness of his erection eager to escape.

“Master…” he panted, drawing his head back. “Master… I…” He opened his eyes to look at Draco, who had leant back to look down at him. “It’s…it’s my first time, Master…please…please can we do it properly?” It would give him a moment to regroup, and let them go back into the house; and while Harry was indeed enjoying the sun, he was sure he’d prefer to be comfortable if this had to happen.

But what else could it be? He was Draco’s sex slave, wasn’t he? This was what he was here for, eventually. It had been a long time in coming, and for that he was grateful; but it was here now, and he would simply have to let it happen.

It wasn’t that he was soft, he told himself. He hadn’t gone soft, he’d just…he’d begun to appreciate what was trivial necessity on the road to his defeating the Dark Lord. Sacrificing his body to Draco…that wasn’t an important thing; but getting the cup from the West Wing was. Horcruxes were important, and he was not. When the war was over, and nobody was suffering any more, maybe then he would allow himself to suffer for all that he had had to endure.

Right now, he just wanted things to go as smoothly as possible, and if he could convince Draco that he wanted it, it would be far easier.

Draco looked down at him, and then he stood up, helping Harry to his feet. “Very well…” he said, considering Harry as he stood. “Yes…go and get yourself ready. You have…one hour. I’ll see you in the Master bedroom when you’re ready.”

“The Master bedroom?” Harry asked, worriedly. The Master bedroom was the biggest room in the house. It overlooked the drawbridge, and it was filled with bright light at this time of day. Draco smiled at him without answering and moved away, leaving Harry to hurry back into the house.

He wanted to leave nothing to chance. The more delectable he looked, the less control Draco would have, and the faster this would go. And when it was done, then it was done. He knew it would break the barrier that had so far stood between them, and when Draco wanted him in the future he would take him wherever he was. It scared him a little…but Harry knew that by holding it off longer, he’d only make Draco’s desire the stronger.

A quick shower was necessary, and Harry oiled and dressed faster than he had before, this time in a gold toga that trickled over his body like a waterfall, reacting to every bend in his body fluidly. His hair he brushed loosely, and sprinkled with gold glitter; and he painted his eyes and lips with gold too, rubbing a little powder into his cheeks over the oil to make them positively shine. The effect was such that Harry removed his toga again and decorated the rest of his body just so. 

A few trinkets and jewels set off his fast work: rings on his fingers and of course the ever present collar about his throat.

After that, nothing could prevent the inevitable necessity of going to the Master bedroom, where the sun was as warm and bright as outside. Draco had no arrived yet; and when he did, Harry was thoroughly astonished by him. He was a silver prince. He was dressed in a silk dressing gown that reflected in the sunlight brightly enough to make Harry flinch from it, and his eyes were elegantly accentuated in silvery blue and thick black liner.

It was so strange to see Draco decorated in such a way. Surely he didn’t have to go to such lengths…

Draco moved into the room, and Harry found himself catching his breath. Oh…but it would make it easier. Draco was indeed beautiful, something that Harry had failed to notice before; and even with his own sensibilities running in the other direction (for Harry liked girls, at least, he had before the war had turned things upside down), he could not deny the attraction.

Though he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, he knew truly that it wasn’t going to be difficult to let Draco do this. If it had been Snape, he knew too well that he wouldn’t be here, dressed as he was. He would have made it so much more difficult. But for Draco he climbed onto the bed, curling his feet up under him and then letting his hips drop to one side to reveal a generous amount of golden thigh.

“You look incredible,” Draco told him, as he approached, climbing onto the side of the bed opposite Harry. He slid his wand from his robed and flicked it at the ceiling. Immediately, the room changed. Harry gasped, for the previously white walls turned reflective, all but the window side and the ground showing the two of them on the bed. 

Harry’s eyes roved around the room, taking in the reflections, and he shuddered. So this was why Draco had chosen this room, and dressed up especially. It was…an odd fetish, but Harry did not mind too much. He moved closer to Draco, trying to ignore the reflections.

Draco’s hands on the toga felt like hands on his skin, such was the quality of the fabric. Harry found that he was trembling, and Draco stroked his shoulders, trying to soothe him. “Lie down,” he told Harry, easing him back onto the bed. “It isn’t that bad.”

It was that bad. Harry found himself looking up at the ceiling, and Draco’s silver head bobbed as he kiss at his chest. Still…as Harry looked up it was somewhat like watching television. There was a certain detachment in his doing so. He began to calm down as Draco kissed lower, and then gently eased the toga up over his hips, so that he could take Harry’s length into his hand.

To Harry, this was the first time that Draco had did this to him, after all, he didn’t remember any of his experience that first night, when Draco had drugged him. He made a noise of shocked surprise, and Draco briefly had to hold him in place so that he couldn’t break free. “Relax,” he ordered. “I’m not going to hurt you, am I?”

Shaking more than before, Harry let his head drop back onto the bed, though he was tense again. Draco kept his hand on his length, and began to stroke it until he managed to earn a reaction from him.

“That’s it. You see, Harry? It’s not that bad. Just calm down…” 

Draco moved over him again, diverting Harry’s attention from the reflection above, and forcing Harry to look into his eyes. They stayed there, just like that, for a long moment, and Harry calmed down significantly. Still Draco’s hand stroked him, and Harry to admit that it felt good, beginning to accept the pleasure that insistently ran through him.

It wasn’t that he’d never touched himself, because he had. He just…had been distracted in those first years of the war, often too tired to engage in tiring after-dark activities. And then he’d been hiding away, and the conditions that he was in easily squashed any desire for self-gratification. Everyone had felt that way…too strained to desire to copulate, except for the typical rapists, always desirous to take advantage of situations.

Draco was clever though. His fingers stroked and teased, and Harry found himself moaning softly, unable to stop himself. It was nice…to be touched like this and somehow, to want to be. He closed his eyes and let himself relax, just as Draco wanted him to.

Still Draco caressed, but he moved on the bed now, shifting onto his side beside Harry so that he could use a combination of his arm and his hip to get Harry to lift his knees up, and place his feet against the bed.

Surely Draco was hungry for him. When Harry opened his eyes in concern, he could see it in the other man’s eyes. He wouldn’t last long. Already his arousal was tenting his silver gown, and Harry waited, tremulously, his own golden toga falling over his hips; feeling incredibly naked as he was, with his growing erection standing in Draco’s hand. He looked up at the reflection in the mirror, surprised at the sight of himself like that, his body shining with sweat and oil and paint. So this was what Draco saw? Perhaps Harry could forgive him his possessiveness…

Harry watched his reflection as Draco’s head dropped between his parted legs, the back of his silver head concealing what he was doing. But Harry felt Draco’s lips close around his cock, and he groaned into the sun-warmed air. That wasn’t in the rules…surely… Oh… It was incredible… His eyes fluttered closed. If being owned always felt like this… No, no, he mustn’t become complacent. One day he would have to escape Draco…

Panting, Harry suffered the fellatio with incredible grace. He watched himself in the mirror as he arched and groaned. The sight was oddly erotic, despite his previous sensibilities about it. Finally Draco drew back, his lips wet, and he moved up against Harry, slotting his body underneath him as he leant over him to devour his lips too.

Harry could taste himself on Draco’s lips, and it was the same almost as Draco’s flavour had been, strong and manly. Harry didn’t even despise the fact that he shared this with a Death Eater…he was more intrigued by it, and he smiled at Draco as he pulled back. Could he forgive himself for wanting this? Probably not… But he didn’t have to worry about forgiveness now. Later…later he could worry about things like that.

Draco’s arousal was pressing against Harry’s rear insistently, but it was still covered with the soft silk cloth. Harry could feel wet against him, though, precome soaking the delicate fabric.

“M…Malfoy…” he whispered, and Draco laughed in surprise.

“I thought it was Master?” he asked, but alleviated the problem with, “But Malfoy will do. It’s more like him.” His words were quick, rolling off his tongue between harsh breaths. Clearly he was painfully in need of moving on, and Harry moved, hooking his legs behind Draco.

“Are you…going to take all day…M-Malfoy?” Harry asked, his green eyes clearly full of need. He was lost to this now… He needed Draco about as much as Draco needed him, and if this was his plan, then it had most certainly worked.

“Mmm…” Draco purred, “Desperate to be fucked, aren’t you, Potter?” Harry only nodded, and Draco laughed once more. “I think I can cure your itch…” he told him, in his most seductive voice, which Harry, in his current state, found incredibly attractive.

When Draco’s wand pressed against him, Harry crashed briefly back to reality before taking off again. He shuddered, opened his eyes and just stared up at Draco as the shaft of wood penetrated his body. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. He’d have been lying to say that it was. It was certainly bizarre, but not entirely uncomfortable.

Gradually the wand slid deeper, and Draco whispered a spell just loud enough for Harry to hear. There was a brief…odd feeling, like someone inflating a balloon inside him, and then it was over, and Draco began to move the wand in and out of him. He could barely feel it now, and he blinked up at the other man in surprise.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“Magic,” Draco answered, with a leer, before leaning back again, still moving the wand in and out of Harry. He slid it free, and Draco lifted the wand, showing Harry the odd substance that covered it. “Wands can make water and wine,” he told Harry. “Is it such a surprise that they can do this too?”

Harry shuddered, his eyes flicking over the wand, then back to Draco’s face. “And you’re…you’re going to be…inside? There?”

Smiling, almost sweetly, Draco cleaned the wand off on his fingers, then slid them down to Harry’s entrance, pushing inside of him with first one finger, and then two.

“Ohh…” Harry groaned, in surprise and discomfort, shifting back away from him. Draco pursued, resuming the stroking of Harry’s arousal as he pushed his fingers into him.

“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered, and Harry did, looking up at himself where he was reflected on the ceiling. With his head back just so, and Draco leaning back so that Harry could see everything that was being done to him in intimate detail… Draco gave him plenty of time to just watch and see, then leant over Harry to kiss him on the lips as he pressed in a third finger beside the first two.

It was beyond anything Harry had felt before. To be full of that intense pleasure, and yet clearly not at ease as cause of the fingers thrust into a place that surely fingers shouldn’t be thrust into. Knowing it was coming was no preparation for how it felt, and how it looked.

Draco clearly thought so too. Harry could see perspiration shining on his forehead, and his eyes were shining with his own lust and desire. His arousal was now thrust against Harry’s thigh to make room for his hands to work, and it was trailing a wet path that warmed and dried in the sunshine.

Still Draco’s hands worked, one inside and one out; and Harry found himself moaning despite the discomfort. He was truly lost; he knew that now.

“I think…you’re ready…” Draco said, struggling with his words, his voice thick and heavy. Harry reached up with trembling hands, gripping tightly onto the edges of Draco’s collar and pushing them back over his shoulders. Down came the silver silk, pooling over their legs, and Draco’s arousal stood proud and eager as always between them. No, it wasn’t an attractive thing…but it symbolized completion, which Harry wanted desperately.

There were no words between them, except for Draco’s first frenzied “Relax.” Harry just breathed and breathed, looking at Draco rather than the reflection above him, as the blond man slid his fingers free and flicked the silver cloth away from them both. There was no need to remove Harry’s toga; it was well out of the way; far up Harry’s belly now, in fact.

Draco slid forwards, and Harry watched, enraptured, as he changed his position and moved close to Harry, still holding Harry’s arousal in one tight hand as the other did something that Harry couldn’t quite see from this angle. Suddenly Draco’s erection was against his wet entrance, pressing against him earnestly, and he shuddered but didn’t lay back, watching Draco with bright eyes as the other pushed inside of his body.

It did hurt. It did hurt a little…but Harry knew how much worse it might have been. Draco had been gentle; his hands had been soft, and his spells had been careful. And so though it hurt, it was more discomfort than pain. Harry’s muscles tightened and relaxed around him, trying to adapt to the strange intrusion – and then trying to push it out. Harry resisted the natural desire of his body, because it would be so easy to let the slippery member go, if only Draco wasn’t still pressing tight against him, keeping it securely in place.

For a minute of so they just breathed. Harry, with his eyes closed, had several things to get used to, as Draco soothingly continued to massage his length to distract him. There was the simple penetration to which he had to adapt – and then there was the fact that somehow, the progress of things had convinced him to allow Draco Malfoy, of all people, to actually do this without resistance.

All too soon, though, Draco was moving. He drew back, and Harry’s eyes fluttered open again, looking at the ceiling as Draco drew out of him and then pressed in. For a moment he swore he could see Draco’s engorged prick pushing into him – and then Harry’s body rippled, and he let a soft groan as he arched forwards, eyes flicking closed against the image above him.

Something…something ridiculously pleasant had just been touched inside of him. He knew it had to be inside, because it had only happened when Draco’s arousal was pressed so deep that Harry was sure he should be able to feel it pushing against the inside of his stomach, trying to get out. And then it had been wonderful, incredible pleasure. Quickly he looked at Draco again, resisting the blindness of sheer desire.

“D…do that…a…aga…” He couldn’t make words, for Draco thrust into him, fulfilling his desire anyway. Again that place was pressed, and Harry’s back arched as he moaned deeply. For Draco too, the pleasure showed on his face. He was looking over Harry’s head, into the mirror at the head of the bed; clearly watching himself as he took Harry Potter. It made Harry whimper softly, to divert the attention back to himself, and Draco began to move more firmly; in and out, touching that place every time.

“Yes,” Harry gasped, and again, urgently. “Yes, oh y-yes.”

And Draco responded in kind to Harry’s gasped pleas, taking him as he pleased; thrusting deep and fast, and making them both groan and sob with pleasure.

Draco, however wonderful he was deep within Harry, neglected his arousal for his own desperate thrusts, and Harry had to take it into his own hand to sustain himself. They stayed like this a long time, Harry’s head tilting back despite himself, looking up at the ceiling to witness their writhing bodies as they plunged on.

All too soon it was over… Sweaty and sticky, and both of them covered with gold and oil from Harry’s decorating session, they sank onto the Master bed together and soaked in the sunshine as they dozed, still interlocked and intertwined.


	8. Snape's Memories

Harry’s life seemed like a blur when he stirred the next morning. There was sleep dust clinging at his eyes, keeping them shut, and rather than wake up when the sun hit the back of his eyes, he simply moved across the bed and curled up in a new place where the sun isn’t falling.

The heat is warm and relaxing, inducing him to sleep longer. By the time he woke up it was almost lunch time, and he hurried to get cleaned and dressed. How could he have been so stupid as to sleep in! Draco would be so angry with him. He had to be at lunch, it was that simple. Quickly he painted his eyes, then skittered out the door, his soft-slipped clutched in his hands.

Half way down the stairs he had his shoes on, and outside the dining hall he stopped, catching his breath. It would do no good to go in looking rushed and tired. And yet, when he did eventually go into the room, there was no sign of Draco at all!

Harry turned on the spot, looking around the room. There was no sign of Draco, or of lunch… A helpful Hermione look-a-like pointed him towards the courtyard when she passed, and Harry hurried out into the blazing sunlight.

Sitting at a table in the very middle of the courtyard sat two figures eating lunch. Temporarily blinded, Harry could not see who the figures were, but he assumed that one was Draco Malfoy; his master…maybe even his lover. He shook his head hard. He wasn’t supposed to be enjoying Draco’s company…especially not the fact that intrinsically, the blond had raped him because he was Harry Potter. Draco’s affection was false, and try as he might to resist, he couldn’t stop himself from at least a little bit, falling for Draco.

Slowly Harry padded across the courtyard, relieved that it was so warm, and the cobbles were dry. He didn’t want to ruin his slippers after all. Didn’t want to ruin his slippers! What was wrong with him?!

When he was half way across the courtyard, the two figures turned towards him, and Harry flinched, for he recognised the guest that Draco had with him. There was no mistaking that superior expression and sallow features, hooked nose and greasy hair. 

Harry fell utterly still, suddenly wishing he hadn’t begun to approach at all. He could always turn back…but now that Draco had seen him that would be a bad thing to do… He didn’t want to be punished for something that trivial. He could stand Snape. He could. Stiff legged he came to the table and dropped down to his knees by Draco’s side.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he said, in a soft, apologetic voice. “I overslept. Please forgive me…?” It sounded pathetic to his ears, at least.

Draco reached down, tracing his fingers through Harry’s hair. “I’m not your Master any more, Harry,” Draco explained, lovingly. “Severus here made me a very generous offer for you.”

“A…what?” Harry blinked, stupidly, his eyes swivelling to Snape. “An offer?” He turned back to Draco, frightened now. “Please don’t sell me, Master…”

“It’s done…I have a replacement for you now. Someone that Severus has become tired of. A very…interesting slave.” Draco smiled, darkly, but ignored Harry, grinning at Snape instead. “So when do I get to see her?”

“See who?”

Snape kicked him hard in the ribs then, making him cough and groan. “Rude, aren’t you, whore? I shall have to break that out of you…but never mind for the moment.”

Looking slightly regretful for a moment, and then quickly recovering, Draco answered anyway, smiling at Harry now. “You know those maids I have, Harry? They’re all based on a real girl…a Mudblood…like you, but born with magic.” He looked at Severus. “When the war ended, Severus here was given the real version. He’s pathetic, really…did you know that he only used her as a potions assistant? A waste… He likes boys more. Which is perfect, really…he wants you, and I want Hermione.”

It was only by sheer coincidence that Snape knocked over his glass of wine at that exact moment, diverting Draco’s attention from Harry’s face as it fell. “Oh dear…my mistake,” he said, silkily. “Look what I’ve done to your lace tablecloth…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said, vanishing the wine distractedly. “It’s just a tablecloth, Severus. So…when do I get to see her?”

“I will send her by portkey,” he said, smiling, “With the veritaserum you asked for.”

Draco gave Harry a look, then said “Nevermind the veritaserum. Really…I don’t need it any more. Though it would be nice to give some to mother to find out where she hid…”

Raising an eyebrow, Snape rose to his feet. ‘I shall send it anyway…to be used as you see fit, of course. I’m sure you’ll be…responsible.”

Just grinning, Draco stood up too, giving Snape a hug. Harry had a little more control of himself now, but his mind was still buzzing.

Hermione! Hermione had been taken by Snape; but he hadn’t abused her…that was…that was just strange. Hermione had just helped Snape all this time. Well, that was what Hermione was best at, after all.

But the best thing was that Hermione was alive; really alive. And, he realised, he was going to see her, however briefly.

Severus was looking at Harry expectantly, and he tilted his head up, squinting at him in the sunlight. In response to the attention, Severus said “My house is on the Shetland Islands, Harry. I suggest you get changed into something much warmer.” Well, that was typical of Snape to live somewhere utterly freezing; some days it had been so cold in the dungeons that Harry’s toes had frozen inside Dobby’s socks. Suddenly he realised that he wanted to get changed. His wand was up in his room, and Snape was giving him a chance to get it.

Quickly Harry moved forwards, tentatively touched his lips to Snape’s hand, and then hurried back to the house. Within two minutes he had changed into the warmest of his clothes, with his embroidered robes pulled over the top, found his wand and restrapped it to his chest with one of his decorative ribbons, and come back down to meet Snape at the bottom of the stairs.

“We are apparating,” Snape told him, unceremoniously gripping hold of Harry’s arm. It was all the warning that Harry had before he was suddenly pulled through the vice like, horrible sensation of apparition.

The building they arrived in was remarkably warm for the Shetland Islands, Harry thought, and the first thing he did was to eye Snape suspiciously. Had he intentionally given Harry the opportunity to fetch his wand? No…no, he doubted it. How could Snape know that he still had his wand, after all? Anyone without a death wish might have lost it intentionally by now.

“Now then, Potter…I shall give you five minutes and five minutes only to speak to Hermione,” Severus’ use of his ‘slave’s’ first name astounded Harry briefly, “before I have to send her to Draco. Don’t waste it.”

It was insane… Not only did he now ‘belong’ to Snape, but Snape was…well, being kind, if you could call it that. He was going to let Harry speak to Hermione. Hermione, whom he’d been worrying about for so very long; and though it was only five minutes, he also had the relief of knowing she was going to Draco…Draco who seemed almost mad in his fixed obsession upon them, who would treat Hermione as kindly as he had treated Harry.

Severus left the room, and moments later, the most radiant face appeared at the door. Hermione…Hermione looked better than ever, a young woman; filled out and well fed. She looked better than Harry could have ever dreamed. He had imagined slavery and starvation…hair hanging in dregs, and a face full of painful memories. But Hermione…she looked like a young witch ought to look.

He must have said her name, because she responded “Yes, Harry, it is me…but is it really you? Severus -” Harry was too stunned to realise that Hermione had called Snape by his first name “- said that he had found you. But there’ve been so many copies…”

“Yes…Snape had an awful habit of getting things right,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Hermione… You look incredible; really, really well.”

“Snape treats me well,” Hermione answered, and Harry could hear the nerves in her voice. Harry realised why she was nervous; Snape must have explained his plans to her…to trade her with Harry; and though she must believe that it was necessary, that didn’t stop her being afraid of what Draco might do.

Harry lifted his hand and touched her cheek, and then lunged forwards, grabbing her into a hard, passionate hug and kissing her hair, breathing into her ear. “Hermione. It’s not that bad. You just…do what Draco wants…if you’re shy he’ll go slowly with you. He wants you to like him; because we never did, I guess. He’ll go slow…and maybe you can hold him off until I escape Snape and deal with Voldemort.”

Against all odds, Hermione actually laughed. “You still don’t trust him, do you?”

“Of course I don’t trust him…what kind of question is that?”

“All these years, Severus has looked after me, Harry. He’s never once hurt me, or degraded me, or treated me like anything but a houseguest. He’s been a total gentleman…even let me use his wand on occasion. And he’s rescued you. He always knew you were alive.”

“But…”

“But nothing, Harry. If I hear you’ve hurt a hair on his head, I’ll personally come and get you. Snape will help you. I know he will.”

Harry sighed, then released Hermione just the slightest bit. “I’ll try and be nice,” he told her. “But it is Snape.”

“Severus,” Hermione corrected, smiling. “Make sure you do… Oh, Harry!”

Suddenly Harry was being squeezed again ecstatically, and Hermione was crying into his hair. Harry held her back, soothing her. He suddenly felt so much stronger, just by having her here. He could do this… He could. He smiled when he finally drew back at the sound of Snape’s voice. “I promise,” he told her, sweetly. “You just look after yourself, Hermione.”

“I will,’ she said. Then she took the phial of veritaserum from Snape and disappeared with a pop.

No sooner was she gone but Harry’s back went up, turning towards Snape abruptly. “So I guess you want me to thank you, do you?” he asked, tersely.

“No,” responded Snape as he tilted his head to one side. “Why, Potter? Did you want to thank me for something?”

“Hermione just went into the lion’s den for me,” Harry answered, glowering. “I can’t just leave her there.”

“Ah…wonderful,” Snape smirked. “The Chosen One finally remembers his responsibilities.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “No matter what Hermione says, you’ll always be a bastard to me,” Harry growled.

“Then you, Potter, will always be predictable and easy to control: How very advantageous for me...”

Turning his attention to his hands, Harry tried not to notice Snape at all. The git deserved to be ignored, and he had better things to think about than how much he hated Snape right now. Snape said something, but Harry was thinking about how best to go about escaping – and when he was free, how to tackle the Dark Lord.

Snape, however, didn’t seem to like being ignored, and Harry’s attention returned unanimously when he was thrust into a wall by strong arms. “Did you hear me, Potter?”

“No,” Harry answered, glaring defiantly at Snape.

“Very well then…I shall surprise you instead.”

Before Harry quite knew what was happening to him, Snape had spun him around and begun pushing him through the corridors of his home. Harry stumbled along obediently for a few moments, then planted his feet squarely and rolled forwards, throwing Snape over his shoulders and into the door that they’d been approaching.

Shocked that it had worked, Harry turned and bolted back through the house. No matter which room he looked in, he couldn’t find a door – and though he ran up and down the short corridor, he soon discovered that unless it was very well hidden, there simply wasn’t one.

When he finally gave up, Snape was waiting patiently, holding his hand to his shoulder and reclining against the wall.

“Are you quite done, Potter?”

Harry scowled, but didn’t try to run again. There was nowhere to run to.

“Then we shall continue,” Snape finished, before leading the way into the nearest room. In the middle of the room was table and two chairs, with an empty bowl sat in the very middle. As Harry approached, he recognised the bowl as being Dumbledore’s pensieve. 

“Why you thieving miserable…”

Snape raised an eyebrow and went to the table, sitting down in one of the seats and stifling a yawn with his hand. “Would you care to join me, Potter, before we all die of boredom?”

Glaring, Harry went to the table and sat himself down, green eyes fixed on Snape’s. Whatever he was going to do, Harry was going to be ready for him… But then, he hadn’t quite been prepared for Snape to reach up to his temple and remove a glowing memory, dropping it into the empty bowl.

Harry looked into the bowl, then back to Snape, and then abruptly stood up. “I don’t want to look at your memories,” he said, honestly. The last time he had, Snape had blown his top, and almost killed Harry on the spot.

“Last time,” Snape said, knowing what was troubling Harry instantly, “You looked without permission, at something I desired for nobody to see. This,” he gestured at the bowl and the one swirling memory, “is about knowledge.”

Harry frowned, and sat down quietly, though he still didn’t exactly trust Snape. He distinctly remembered sorting old report cards, and wouldn’t be surprised if this was just another way of Snape’s to make him feel bad for what his father had done. It had been a long time…but Snape didn’t change, did he? The war had come and gone, and Snape was still the same gloating, evil bastard, wasn’t he? But then…he had looked after Hermione…

Ignoring his doubts, Harry waited until Snape gestured to the pensieve, and then leant forwards to press his face into it – almost sure that he could feel Snape’s greasiness in the memory itself. Instantly he found himself dragged forwards, down and down into a pit of blackness, and then guided towards a tiny dot of light in the dark that got bigger and bigger until it became Hogwarts castle from above. Down they went, until they crashed through the roof of Dumbledore’s tower and came to an instant stop.

Dumbledore’s office was as beautiful as Harry ever remembered it being. The instruments were all shining and polished and interesting; the portraits were all talking amongst each other loudly, clearly because there was nobody there, and only interrupting his enjoyment of his surroundings was the sudden presence of Snape beside him, holding his shoulder.

As Harry watched, Dumbledore and Snape entered the office, silencing the portraits instantly as they spoke together. Dumbledore’s voice was the first that Harry heard. ‘It is tomorrow night then, Severus…I thought that we had a little longer.”

“Your work with Potter?”

“Incomplete, I’m afraid… I shall have to take him with me tomorrow, although I fear that I have not completed my examination of the cave system. There are certainly Inferi…but what else is there I cannot guess.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. This was the night before the incident in the Astronomy Tower. He moved forwards to the edge of Dumbledore’s desk as the two memory people took their seats, and Dumbledore poured steaming tea from a kettle that had been steaming happily alongside the other instruments.

“You will be careful, I hope?” the memory Snape said, “The boy is our only chance.”

Harry blinked in surprise. He turned to look at Snape questioningly, but he was looking away, purposefully ignoring Harry.

“Oh, that he knew how you cared… You really have fostered quite some hatred from him, Severus.”

Snape took the offered cup of tea and sipped it, then said “It was necessary. We always knew that the Dark Lord would return…and my allegiances were never to be questioned. Potter is an awful Occlumens.”

Harry’s concerns that the memory had been expertly altered faded when Snape said that, and Harry flushed. “I’m much better now,” he said, in the silence that followed while the two men sipped their tea. Snape just smirked at him.

“Are you sure there isn’t another way?” the memory Snape finally asked.

“I am dying already, Severus… Every time I use my magic it gets worse.” He lifted his shrivelled hand and pulled back the sleeve, only Harry could see that it affected his entire arm now. “The least I can do is put you firmly into Voldemort’s trust, and save Draco. It is how things must be. Come now, Severus…we’ve had this argument before,” he said, when Snape opened his mouth once more.

Harry watched sadly as Dumbledore stood up and went to an empty frame sitting on the wall, stroking it tenderly. “Every headmaster knows when their time is almost up, Severus,” said the older man. “We get prior warning. There is no compromising with fate. I have already set my things in order.”

It was only when Snape pushed a hankerchief in front of his nose that Harry realised that he was crying. Dumbledore had known he was going to die – had known it, and planned his own actions accordingly. And Snape…what did this all mean in regards to his thoughts about Snape? 

Finally he realised. Dumbledore had made Snape do it… The realisation struck him like a leaden balloon, and he turned to face the man in question. Snape wasn’t looking at him; his attention was on the Snape in front of him, the one sipping his tea with shaking hands. He didn’t seem to notice Harry when Harry looked at him – in fact, he may as well be a part of the memory for all the attention he showed. Harry placed his hand on Snape’s shoulder and turned towards the continuing scene.

“Do you think he’ll really be able to do it, Albus?” he finally asked, and Harry knew that this was why they were still here. Dumbledore’s reply, designed to spur him on from the grave. He listened harder:

“Harry has lived through so much hardship and loss, Severus…he has a strength that I do not believe you give him credit for. And he has on his side the security of knowing that only the Dark Lord can kill him. I know…you think that he may grow…overconfident, Severus… That’s why you must make sure that he realizes his flaws and weaknesses. I have faith in you, and you must have faith in him.”

Harry frowned at the old man as he finished off his cup of tea and stood up. “Please, Severus. I should like to enjoy my last night on earth with a good book. Goodnight.”

And Harry felt the swirling dizziness of the Pensieve retrieving him, and suddenly firm ground under his feet, Snape’s hand on his shoulder.

“There are moments when the faith Albus asked me to have in you is stretched indeed, Potter…but moments where you shine as you did in his eyes, too. I must insist that you shine a little brighter.”

“Sure, Snape…’Shine a little brighter’. I’d be careful, or people might think you even liked me.”

“They’d be wrong. I despise you, Potter,” Snape said, and Harry was sure that he almost saw him twinkle, which was terrifying.


	9. Favourite Chair

Snape’s house turned out to be a lot more interesting than Harry cared to admit. First of all, there was his room, which was significantly smaller than the enormous, richly decorated room that Draco had given him – and yet he knew well enough that of the two of them, it was Snape who had become the wealthier during the war. The unspeakable bond of trust between himself and the Dark Lord had not faltered in the slightest.

Although the room was small, it was decorated richly. The quality of the furnishings were such that Harry could see their long life in the very grain of the wood, and the items that ‘decorated’ every room of the house bled onto every surface – interesting items, dangerous items, powerful items. It was like Aladdin’s cave. Where there weren’t trinkets, there were books; books on the dark arts, for the most part, covering almost every scrap of wall. A few portraits, Harry discovered, were Princes from the past. Snape’s fondness for his own pureblood heritage certainly hadn’t been grown out of, and in his wealth, Harry supposed he had simply purchased the paintings from antiques shops and the like.

Contrary to what he believed, Snape’s house was not decked out in patriotic green and silver and black – it was for the most part brown, due to the great amount of furniture and ancient books; while the walls behind the furniture seemed to be a kind of dirty white, like the ceiling. Large wooden beams crossed the ceiling in every room, reinforcing the fact that from the outside, this must be quite an impressive building.

When Snape was out, as he was right now, Harry would spend his time looking around every room, and occasionally reading through books. At first he would simply take the book that Snape left by his chair in the library, and read that, and then replace it so that he wouldn’t know that he had touched it. Soon he found that Snape actually left him specific books to read, with a ribbon stretched through it at an interesting place. And so Harry learnt the theory of spells in his spare time.

In the morning when Harry awoke, Snape would be gone. A house elf would bring him breakfast and lunch – and then in the evening, Snape would come back, looking tired, but still determined to spend time with Harry.

Initially they went through Snape’s research together, discussing Horcruxes and powerful spells. After a week of this, Snape finally said, “You do still have your wand, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry, who had become quite used to being called his first name, was at least a little dazzled by Snape knowing about his wand. “Why would I…?”

Snape glared at him, and answered, his voice quite hard. “A warrior is never without his weapon. You’d have found a way.”

“I have it,” he said, quickly, not wanting Snape to think that he was weak. He withdrew his wand from inside of his robes. “Of course I have my wand.”

“Then we will begin our training,” replied the older man, rising from his chair and withdrawing his wand.

Harry’s eyes widened, and he stepped back. “I…I don’t think…I haven’t used it for four years!”

Immediately, Snape glared at him. “Then you’d better have a very good memory,” he snapped, and lifted his wand in a sharp, direct movement. Stupefy was unmistakable, and Harry reacted instantly, lifting his wand in the shield-like motion of defense, his stupefy wordless and powerful.

“You don’t forget magic, Potter; it’s in your blood,” said Snape, proudly.

“Next time I’ll let you hit me,” Harry griped; although he felt significantly happier for having reacted so smoothly to the attack.

Snape half smiled, and then turned, walking from the room. It was clear that Harry was to follow him, but he wasn’t quite ready for Snape to take him to the end of the hall; a dead end. Of course, when a door appeared, he finally understood, and Snape led Harry out into a surprisingly sunlit garden. Well, garden was a loose term for it. In fact, it seemed a lot more like a large rock, surrounded by ocean. In each direction, Harry could only really see the choppy sea, a few other large rocks like their own, and what he thought might be the coast, only it looked – well, white. As he stepped out, he was struck by an intense blast of ice cold wind which went straight to the bone.

The house turned out to be a single story timber building built almost straight on top of the rock surface, but Harry didn’t have much time to look at it, Snape was demanding his attention.

“This is where we will spar, Potter. We have a few hours yet until the sun goes down, and you don’t want to be out here after that.” He paused, examining Harry, who was shivering. “Is something wrong, Harry?”

“C-cold,” Harry answered, making Snape snort and lift his wand again. Harry responded with a kind of pointy shield-charm, but although it worked, it only made Snape angry.

“I’m trying to cast a warming charm on you Potter. Do you mind?”

Surprised, Harry lowered his wand, letting Snape warm him – and oh, that felt so much better. He was grateful, but ready for Snape’s next move, his wand lifting back up.

Five successfully defended curses later, Snape cast Crucio; which of course was undefendable, and gave Harry quite a shock.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he panted, after Snape had removed the curse.

“You can defend as long as you like, Harry, but the spells you will be coming up against are more dangerous than a Protego can defend. Even with the simplest curses, you would eventually be exhausted and defenseless. Counterattack is the only answer.”

“Couldn’t you have just told me that, instead of cursing me?” Harry growled, dragging himself back to his feet and stepping back from Snape.

Ignoring his suggestion, Snape went on. “Next time, return fire the moment you have the chance.”

“You want me to attack you?” Harry asked, blankly.

“I want you to defeat the Dark Lord. Practice is essential. And it doesn’t matter, you can’t possibly hit me.”

Harry shook his head. “You want to fight, then we’ll fight properly. One on one, you and me…”

Raising an eyebrow sardonically, Snape replied “You aren’t anywhere near ready for that, Harry.”

“You’re just chicken,” Harry complained.

“Am I?” There was a hard light in Snape eyes, but Harry was getting carried away now, and didn’t notice it. He smirked, then said “Go ahead then, Harry. Attack me.”

“No,” Harry answered, holding his ground. “You first…”

Harry backed up a step, and Snape came after him. “Very well,” he said, his voice dripping with predatory intention.

Snape attacked, and Harry defended, moving sidewards at the same time. He came towards Snape, blocking and blocking, and then attacking with a curse to keep him occupied as he closed the space between them. He attacked physically when he reached him, lifting his arm and punching Snape.

Only Snape wasn’t there.

He’d moved sidewards when Harry tried to punch him, and he swung too far, losing his balance and stumbling. He turned, backstepped, but only got hit by Snape, falling onto his back on the cold stone ground.

Before he could move, Snape was down over him, one arm pinning Harry’s wand hand, the other pushing his wand firmly against his throat.

“So,” Snape said, slowly, “are you really ready to fight me, Harry?”

“Maybe not,” was the coy answer, as Harry lay his head back onto the stone ground. He’d never been aware quite how strong Snape was – but he knew now, feeling the restraint of his left hand on his wand-arm. Neither had he been aware of just how he might feel in such a situation as this, pinned to the ground with Snape leaning over him, clearly in a position of power. He gasped, disgusted at his own reaction, and tried to twist free.

“Something wrong, Harry?” asked the older man, holding him tight.

“Gerroff,” Harry grunted, twisting a little harder, his fingers closing on Snape’s wrist helplessly. Snape mustn’t know. “Get off, Snape!”

“Call me Severus, and I’ll think about it, Harry.”

Harry shivered, but it wasn’t the cold which made him do so; it was the look he was getting from Snape…a kind of burning ice fire that chilled him deeper than the wind ever could.

When he spoke, his “Severus” fell like a breath from his lips, and it made Snape’s lips twitch briefly as though he might actually smile. He was released after that…from the hold, at least. Snape’s eyes remained on him, even as he climbed back to his feet and dusted himself off.

There was a moment of hesitant silence, and then Snape lifted his wand again, and Harry was forced to defend, distracting himself from the incident.

But Snape had been so warm…

\- - - - -

Only the next morning, sitting in Severus’ chair with his latest book (this one on a particularly nasty decapitation spell) strewn across his lap, and his morning coffee balanced in his left hand, did Harry really have time to think about the incident again.

He wondered if it was the discovery of Snape as being more than just a mind which had bewitched him so. The man was strong; stronger than Harry. But was that really a surprise? Snape had not been starving for the last few years. He had not been forced to suffer at the expense of others…at least, not in the same way. Perhaps even Malfoy would have been stronger than him, if they’d ever been placed into a position of needing to find out.

Malfoy… A part of Harry missed him. Life with Malfoy was more exciting than it was with Snape. Yes, he had been forced into sexual situations with Malfoy, and he supposed that he should feel disgusted and violated, but somehow he just couldn’t. Draco was…well…beautiful. And Harry could do nothing but admit that. So yes, he missed him. He missed…being wanted.

And then there was Snape. Snape wasn’t beautiful, like Draco. He was all greasy hair and beaked nose and leather skin. But he was also his intuitive mind, and his incredible strength – and those eyes.

Though Harry would not be the first to admit that Snape’s eyes concealed their own beauty; he would most certainly not be the last, either. They were black pearls; caverns which held great treasure, if only you dared to dive inside of them. 

Harry shivered and lifted his coffee, taking a sip of it. But it didn’t help. Placing the coffee and the book down, instead, Harry leant back in the chair. The upholstery smelt of Snape. It was the only chair he sat in for long periods at a time, and the worn piece of furniture was certainly a testament to that.

Could he really be considering what he was considering doing? He took in a deep breath and then sighed, closing his eyes. Yes…yes, he definitely was.

Sliding his hand down his front, Harry focused, clearing his mind and then just imagining Snape. It was surprising just how good seeing his face made him feel. If he had asked himself, he would certainly have denied whom he pictured, but certainly it was Snape. It was Snape, leaning over him in this little library chair, his breath falling on Harry’s throat, making his skin boil, the scent of him enveloping Harry; marking him.

Harry’s fingers trembled over each button, getting them open by desire alone. His fingers lingered on the last button, then opened it and pushed it aside, firmly running his fingers low on his abdomen as he did so.

Letting his shirt hang open and opening his eyes to see better what he was doing, Harry reached down to his waistband, twisting the button at the top away and then ever so gently, and then edging the zip down. Pushing the flaps aside, Harry went to the convenient buttons of his underwear – well, Snape’s underwear, since he had been forced to borrow some. As he pushed them down ever so slightly, his erection sprang free, proud and glistening.

Licking his lips in anticipation, Harry rubbed round circles on his stomach, and closed his eyes once more. Snape was leaning over him again, like they had been outside; he had Harry firmly pinned, so that he couldn’t move, and yet one of his hands was free to touch him anyway, and it did. Harry slid his hand down his front, mimicking that of the Snape he imagined, twisting at one nipple on the way, and then descending the stairway of his ribcage.

A shuddering breath later, Harry’s hand crept into the tangle of his pubic hairs, and then twisted, fingers clambering up the throbbing heat of his need.

“I told you to counterattack, didn’t I, Harry?” purred the dream Snape, leaning down again, this time to bite and lick at Harry’s throat, making him groan a little.

Harry’s fingers stopped their climbing, and then closed suddenly around him, forcing a gasp at the intensity of it. It was Snape doing this; in his head at least.

“Yes,” breathed Harry, eyes rolling behind their lids, and he began to stroke, thrusting his hips towards every other movement.

He lost sight of his fantasy after that. It was too difficult to concentrate on why he was so very aroused when he was just that. His masturbation was now the most important thing, and he got easily carried away, moaning and twisting and thrusting until it was all too much.

When he came, Snape’s eyes were what flashed onto the back of his eyelids – and then exploded in a shower of white sparks.

Two or three minutes later, Harry let his eyes creep open. His fingers closed around his wand, sitting on the table beside his coffee; and without thinking he leant forward and used it to clean himself up.

He wasn’t quite prepared for Snape to Apparate right in front of him when he did so.

Whatever Snape was going to say, it didn’t come. There was a long moment of absolute silence, where neither of them moved or spoke. Harry’s eyes were wide, his face blushed, and he was frozen in position leaning forwards – his trousers around his ankles, and come still coating his reddened length.

When Harry was sure the uncomfortable silence should be over – as in, when he got the sensation back in his body and would have been prepared to move, if Snape wasn’t still looking at him so – it only crept on and on.

Finally Snape did break the spell: he turned around. Harry didn’t waste his time in getting cleaned off and dressed as fast as possible, standing up abruptly from Snape’s chair and folding his hands over his front. When Snape turned back towards him, he was standing up very straight, his gaze directed towards the floor.

Coughing to clear his throat, Snape began.

“You used magic while I wasn’t here.”

Naturally, the fact that Snape was keeping a close eye on him - whether he was actually here or not - did not surprise Harry. Now he thought about it, using that spell to clean himself off had been a pretty lousy idea…but he hadn’t exactly been in his right mind at the time.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself?” asked Snape, his tone ever patient.

When Harry looked up, it was only Snape’s eyes that he met, and he blushed beet red and looked away.

“I realize that having fantasies about me must upset you terribly…” Snape prompted, expecting Harry to snap that he was doing no such thing. But Harry didn’t – he just kept his eyes diverted, and if anything blushed a little redder.

“I see…” said Snape, finally, growing tired of this one sided conversation. “I see.” He turned away, trying to decide just what to do. Finally he said “Very well, we shall discuss this when I get home tonight. In the meantime…in the meantime, I suggest you finish your studies.”

Harry looked up, opening his mouth to speak, but Snape disapparated as he did so, leaving him very much alone.

\- - - - -

Snape had lost his nerve by the time he returned that evening, and he didn’t bring it up with Harry again until a few days later, over a late night dinner.

“I trust you’ve been keeping your extra-curricular activities to the bedroom,” Snape said, flicking his eyes towards Harry. “I should appreciate your not befouling my library chair further.”

Harry didn’t answer – he stared into his glass of wine and frowned.

Snape went on. “We’re expected to go to a banquet this weekend…at the Dark Lord’s Manor…the one he built using the stones of Hogwarts.”

This time Harry did sit up, taking in Snape’s gaunt features more attentively. “Do you think that we…”

“Stand a chance?” asked Snape. “No; besides, you have not found any Horcruxes yet – you will need to do that before we destroy him. Do you think your Occlumency is up to him?”

Harry nodded. “Mind as thick as mud,” he said. “Don’t worry; I’ll feed him frightened images of slave auctions and fights in the street. I’ve got plenty to share.”

“You will have to…do certain things, Harry,” said Snape, suddenly.

“Do certain things?” answered the other, weakly. “Certain things like what?”

“Like…” Snape was looking away, “…Sexual things, Harry.”

“With you?” he asked, meekly.

“Do you see anybody else?” asked Snape sharply, glaring at Harry now. “Is something wrong? …Because there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it when you were masturbating in my library chair!”

It was Harry’s turn to look away this time. “That was different,” he said, “You weren’t actually there!”

Snape paused, then stood up, coming around the table. “My presence affects your ability to be aroused? I think not, Potter.” He’d resorted to last name basis, and that was never a good thing. Snape moved like a panther, lunging in and grabbing the legs of the chair, upsetting it so that Harry tumbled onto the floor. Immediately Snape was above him, pressing him down onto the floor, looming over him. Harry held his breath, eyes widening.

“I know what you want, Harry,” purred Severus, his saturnine voice as soft as goose down. “You want to be mastered, possessed. You want me to hold you down and take you, because you couldn’t bear it if you actually wanted me. Isn’t that right?”

Harry’s breath fell, and he tore in another ragged lungful. He didn’t answer – he couldn’t speak. He was aroused…and he knew his voice would betray him.

“Doesn’t it feel nice?” Snape purred, moving closer, rocking his hips against Harry’s, so that he let out a surprised moan. “That’s it, Harry.”

Harry whimpered, trying to pull away, but Snape had him thoroughly pinned, and he had to speak. He had to try a last ditch attempt at saving his sanity. “I don’t…want you,” he said, hard.

“Well, that has to be the worst impression of not wanting me that I have ever experienced,” Snape purred in response, stroking his hand up Harry’s thigh and rubbing at the hard bump of his arousal.

Groaning, Harry tried to think of something, anything, in order to distract Snape from what he was inevitably going to do. A single thought sprang to his mind, as though it had been waiting for this exact moment to reappear. “There’s a Horcrux at the Malfoy’s,” he said, quickly.

Snape stopped, as Harry had thought he would, and sat up, frowning down at Harry. “There’s a Horcrux at the Malfoys…and you only just remembered this?”

Flushing, Harry looked anywhere but at Snape. “There were a lot of things happening,” he groused. “It’s not my fault I forgot it!”

“Oh, it isn’t?” asked Snape, raising an eyebrow. “So it’s my fault, I imagine? Or perhaps you’re blaming Draco…oh no, hold on – it’s His Horcrux, so let’s blame Him for your stupidity.”

“You know what?” Harry snapped, pulling himself up and trying to wriggle free from under Snape. “You can sod off if you think I’m actually going to sleep with you. I don’t sleep with people who think I’m stupid, allright?!”

“And I don’t sleep with people who are stupid!” growled Snape, though he truly didn’t mean to be so angry with Harry…it was merely the timing which had irritated him. How could he have forgotten something so very important? He got to his feet, stepping away and folding his arms over his chest.

Harry got up too, but he didn’t go to escape. Snape was annoyed…and he had been an idiot. Horcruxes meant lives. The sooner he got them destroyed, the fewer would die. He stepped towards Snape, nervously, wrapping his arms around the other man and leaning against his back. “I’m sorry…we’ll think of some way to deal with it.”

“We will,” Snape answered, allowing the contact. “I hope you’re not sniffing around for an apology,” he warned.

“An apology? From you? That’s like asking a troll to perform ballet.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, turning towards his young charge. “A troll? Is that what I remind you of?”

“No…” Harry explained, “you’re a lot more like a vampire.”

“As I have been informed on numerous occasions,” Snape replied, dryly.

“Sure…but how many people have told you that they’d let you suck their blood any day?”

Raising an eyebrow, Snape leant closer, his lips hovering above Harry’s. “None have been brave enough to dare,” he purred.

“Oh yeah?” Harry asked, breathlessly.

“None. How about you?”

Harry laughed a soft laugh and leant up to whisper in Snape’s ear. “You can suck my blood any day,” he hissed, his heart thundering. God, he was mad, wasn’t he? Practically throwing himself at Snape; Snape, who up until a week ago had been That-Arsehole-Who-Killed-Dumbledore…

But he wanted him. Harry couldn’t deny the cold truth of that, so when Snape kissed at his throat and moved down, he arched his neck. Blunt teeth fell on his throat, and Snape sucked at the skin, gently. When he drew back, Harry felt the wet skin chilling in the cold air. It made him whimper all over again.

When Snape abruptly pulled back, it left Harry feeling quite rejected. The man smiled at him, tapped his mark to explain, and then vanished with a loud crack, leaving Harry with only imagined warmth. Damned Voldemort…why was he always getting in the way of what Harry wanted?!


	10. Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

The week went on in thorough oddity, with Snape now avoiding Harry even more than he seemed to be doing before. Harry assumed that his host’s resistance had been something to do with the impending visit to the Dark Lord’s residence, but for sure he would have appreciated even a little consideration on Severus’ behalf.

Severus. It seemed almost ludicrous to call him that, but as the week progressed, Harry found himself thinking more about him as Severus, and less as a man who for so long had been hated by him. With all the time to think that he had, he had fast sorted through his life before the war, remembering old hurts and putting them to rights with the fresh new explanation of the man that was Severus Snape that he had acquired.

A man who was helping him become stronger, making him practice magic, and preparing him to fight the Dark Lord.

But not this weekend; this weekend, Harry would have to face him without his wand, in a non-combative manner. Suffice was to say that he was certainly not looking forward to it – by Thursday night his nerves were frayed, and at midnight, Snape for the first time came to visit, placing a potion on Harry’s nightstand. Afraid he’d just leave, Harry reached out for him, taking a firm hold of his robes.

“It’s a dreamless sleep potion,” Snape told him, coarsely. His voice sounded strange, and Harry gave a little tug, and was surprised to find Snape drop onto the bed beside him.

Harry sat up, concerned, and spoke softly. “I know which potion it is,” he told the older man, stroking his hand up his back. It was a relief to have Snape here. “What is it? He asked, tentatively. Yes; there was something wrong. “You’ve been like this since you went to see Him.”

Severus made a noise that sounded something like a dry, humourless laugh, leaning forwards so that he could drop his head into his hands. Frowning, Harry spooned against his back. “I think I deserve to know…”

“And why is that?” Severus snapped, wheeling towards him on the bed. The fury in his voice should been a warning, but it just sounded terribly desperate to Harry, who reached up and touched his cheek gently.

“I’m a big boy now, Severus,” Harry told him, an edge of hardness in his otherwise soothing voice. “Tell me.”

Snape sighed, and Harry thought that he seemed to turn his head into his hand. He smiled and waited, and inevitably Snape told him.

“The Dark Lord has requested…requested your services.”

Harry felt his blood run cold at those words, and he turned his eyes up towards Snape’s. He felt like saying something light, trying to make a jest out of it – but the way Snape was perched on the bed made him nervous that if he did anything of the sort, Snape would be away from him in a heartbeat. Rather than recoil, he leant forwards, brushing his lips over the other man’s gently. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” Severus asked after a moment.

Smiling wistfully, Harry’s reply was almost a breath. “Yes. Of course.” He slid forwards, and coiled himself around Snape, holding him gently and leaning up to kiss him again. Only now did Snape betray his surprise at the contact. When Harry leant back the next time, Snape seemed to have calmed a little, so he let himself continue. “The very thought of being near him…being touched by him. I haven’t been more afraid in my life. But…this is something that I have to do. I’m glad you told me, Severus. I’d have felt…betrayed otherwise.”

Now Harry just waited, and eventually he was rewarded for his patience – Snape leant forwards and returned the kisses that he had been given. It was just a touch, but it was soothing enough.

Snape withdrew again, and if anything, he looked a little guilty, but Harry just smiled at him. “Thank you,” he told him, honestly, then gave him a little push. “Go to bed, and sleep. And I’ll take this.” Plucking the potion from the nightstand, he waved it at Snape. “I’ll be ready to go in the morning,” he told him, then scrunched up his nose, adding “And decorated.”

When Snape was gone, Harry pulled himself up the bed so he could sit with his back against the carved headboard. So tomorrow they were going to spend the weekend with the Dark Lord, and at least at one point over the weekend, he would be prostrated before him. The idea sickened him, but he knew it was necessary. He had to do it though. If he wanted to defeat Voldemort, he would have to give up everything that he had left.

Of course, Snape was right. He was going to need that potion to get to sleep tonight. With a sigh he reached up and took it, bringing it to his lips and drinking it down.

His sleep was blissful relief from the torture of his thoughts.

* * * * *

Harry awoke to the darkness of morning on their rock, soft sheets beneath him, buried in a cocoon of warmth. He didn’t open his eyes for a minute; the bliss of his sleep had been perfect. He wanted to go back. It was better than considering what would be happening today.

Eventually, Harry simply had to open his eyes, and when he did, reality came down on him, crushing and powerful. Snape would be up already, if he had even gone to sleep; Harry would have to get started on his preparations for the day, or else he wouldn’t be ready by the time he was expected to leave.

The shower was the first requirement of the day, and then he went along the hall to see if Snape had left him anything to eat. Scones, jam and chocolate chip cookies waited for him, and he ate them quickly, knowing he’d be relieved for them later. Slave’s food was always plentiful, but a slave was required to wait longer than his masters, accepting only tidbits while they stretched out their merrymaking. A good drink came afterwards – and then, before he could run into Snape, he retired to his room to clean his teeth and glare at his tousled hair in the mirror.

It was when Harry went to recover his golden clothes from the wardrobe that he discovered Snape’s gift, presumably brought specifically for this purpose. He held onto the wardrobe doors to keep himself upright, knuckled whitening from the effect of his grip on the hardwood.

“I wish Tonks had taught me better,” he murmured to himself, “Then I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

Still, it was clear to Harry just how he was expected to look when he left with Snape, and his makeup would come before his clothes. For the simple attire that he was expected to wear today, he went with a slick, perfumed oil that he had packed upon leaving Draco’s house, rubbing it into his skin. It wasn’t the only part of him that he prepared with oil. He was taking no chances – and he knew full well that if the Dark Lord demanded him on the first day, preparing Harry would be the last thing on his mind.

Satisfied, he recovered his precious gold sheen, but did not go so overboard as before. He put it on his paler parts – the center of his chest, his flanks and thighs and arms. Then he used a little rouge in his cheeks to counter it, and a little of the oil from the back of his hands to make himself look only the slightest bit debauched.

This was what he had been taught to do; there was a certain amount of satisfaction in a job well done, despite who he had done it for. 

Content that he looked good naked, Harry slid into the underwear that had been provided for him. If anything, it was surprising what simple clothes he had been provided with. Plain white cotton briefs…he could hardly call them attractive himself. But for somebody with a fantasy about Harry Potter, he supposed they were the best thing since sliced bread. Personally, he’d always preferred boxers.

Finally he could put it off no longer – he went back to the wardrobe and recovered the too large shirt, jeans and belt; scooped up the old trainers and mismatched socks, and unhooked his school robes from the hanger.

The scent that swept at him as he picked them up was nostalgic and powerful, and Harry realized instantly what he was holding…and dropped them.

Thirty seconds later, he burst into Snape’s room, shining and naked, surprising the pacing man mid-step.

“They… My clothes… Why?”

Snape raised his eyebrow, looking Harry over from top to bottom, but the young man didn’t flinch. He asked again. “Why am I wearing my schoolrobes? My clothes? How did you get them?”

There was a long pause, and then Snape said gravely. “I did not get them, Harry. The Dark Lord did. He…seems to have collected a great number of your things. You know how he is with his trophies.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to fall still. If Voldemort had his things, then Occlumency was going to be a lot more difficult than even Snape or he had presumed. The look Snape was giving him only affirmed this. “That’s right, Harry,” he said, voice heavy with concern. “That is what has been keeping me awake all week.”

“…When you could have been practicing with me?” Harry asked, breathlessly. “I can’t do this! I’m going to be found out, like you found me out. Oh god…he’s going to kill me!”

Now Snape stepped forwards, leant down, and kissed Harry hard on the lips. The shock of it would have been enough, even if the mouth on his own hadn’t efficiently calmed him down. Snape wasn’t leaving it at contact though – he was thoroughly going to mess up Harry’s make-up, forcing his mouth open with determined lips, devouring Harry’s tongue and replacing it with his own. It was a fantastic kiss.

It definitely soothed the beast that had been fluttering inside Harry’s chest; even if it was Snape.

When Severus finally drew back, Harry had lost the direction of his mind. He wasn’t sure why he was standing here naked, or what he’d come to Snape for. Something had upset him, hadn’t it? He was swimming in dazed, slightly confused, happiness. Happy! Because Snape had kissed him! He took a deep breath, and looked the other man in the eye.

“Go and get dressed, Harry. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Oh yes… The clothes, the party and Voldemort; it was all coming back to him now. Somehow, he went back into his room feeling bolstered by the kiss. It was the security of knowing that Snape was on their side, would be there to fall back on if things went wrong. Snape wanted Harry to win.

Steeling himself, he dressed in his old clothes, and slipped on his old and broken glasses, trying to ignore the familiarity of them. They were just clothes…just decorations like those scant ones that Draco had provided him. It didn’t matter that they were his clothes and smelled like him. That’s what he told himself, at least.

When Severus met him in the hallway a few minutes later, he shocked the older wizard with his appearance. 

“Draco’s transformation was a little too perfect for my tastes…” he muttered, softly. “Be prepared for the Dark Lord to test you, to make sure that you aren’t who you are pretending to be. He is a cautious man, as he deserves to be…and would not be past thinking that Draco or I had concealed you for the last six years…”

Harry nodded. Severus’ warnings did not go unheeded, but they also scared Harry a little. Voldemort was the cleverest man he had ever known; he controlled Snape, and had killed Dumbledore. If he was sure that Harry was really Harry, then whatever devices he instigated to work it out, Harry was sure that he would fall straight into them. If it was really that bad, then he was doomed.

Apparition felt somehow worse than usual with that weight on his shoulders.

The next sensation was odd, and familiar.

When Harry opened his eyes, he found himself inside an arrogantly decorated foyer, built out of rich grey flagstones, and lavishly filled with familiar tapestries and portraits. It didn’t take Harry long to realize that all of these things were trophies from Hogwarts – even the stone – and that the feeling that was like a storm in the pit of his stomach reminded him of one thing only: Tom Riddle’s Diary.

Shivering, Harry regretted the absence of his wand. Snape now held it; just in case he needed to give it to Harry to aid in any kind of impromptu escape, but so that Harry could not be discovered with his old, phoenix feather wand. It didn’t make him feel terribly comfortable to be unarmed in this kind of environment, however. It felt like danger. He stepped in behind Snape, and looked in every direction critically.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Snape asked, slipping into unwelcome old habits despite himself.

Harry bit his lip for a moment, then stepped closer. “This place feels weird. Can’t you feel it?”

“Hold your tongue,” Snape reprimanded, and Harry scowled and stepped forwards. On second thoughts, Snape hadn’t changed. He still didn’t care for any opinion that wasn’t his own.

Their progression through the halls was an uncomfortable one. Harry kept seeing things that didn’t just remind him of Hogwarts – they were Hogwarts. There was a painting of a fruit bowl that wasn’t just familiar, it was exact, and a statue of a hunchbacked witch that was unmistakable. At every column stood a podium with a burning lamp upon it, the Hogwarts seal emblazoned into the stone.

Up above them stood rows of windows, gothic arches full of sparkling stained glass. Outside Harry knew the sun was beginning to rise, rays spreading over the poisoned earth. Harry hissed, remembering every man and woman who would be waking to another morning of labour and possible death.

“Down.” Harry startled, and obeyed Snape’s command, dropping down to one knee and looking up to see what was happening. Severus was bowing too, and immediately Harry saw why. For a moment he couldn’t resist looking into the crimson eyes of the man who was approaching them with his entourage. And didn’t he look young?!

Occlude. He focused on bringing only his memories of living with Snape and Malfoy to mind, and bowed his head, pressing his shoulder up against Snape’s leg to illustrate his fear.

Voldemort was at their side far too quickly for Harry’s confidence. He seemed to sweep over the ground like a battleship through water. At least it didn’t give Harry much time to feel sick, or think again about what might be about to happen.

“Very impressive, Severus…” Even the voice sent pure ice down Harry’s spine. The background sting of his scar sparked briefly as those eyes turned back upon him. He just hoped that he could stand the pain when he was inevitably touched.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape said, “But the hard work was all young Mister Malfoy’s.”

“Ah yes…of course it was,” Voldemort hissed, considering Harry still. Harry knew the eyes were still fixed on him because he could feel them burning into the back of his head. He didn’t dare move, if he did, he knew he would lose his nerve and try to flee. It had been years since he’d faced the enemies that he had been forced to submit to recently.

Severus’ hands on the back of his head, forcing him to look up, were quite unwelcome. The red eyes immediately scanned the face that they had only had a glimpse of before. Harry could feel them taking in each feature critically – the green eyes, glasses and scar. Harry shivered, because the look was invasive, and again he felt that probing touch, memories coming to the surface. It took all of his focus to make sure that they were the right ones.

When Voldemort finally looked away, it was impossible to tell whether he’d fallen for it or not. Harry had never been forced to use his Occlumency against Voldemort himself, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was up to the task.

Finally the Dark Lord addressed Snape, and Harry relaxed. “A brilliant copy, Severus. Now then, Septimus here will settle you into your room, and I shall want to receive you both in the Sun Room at noon.”

“Very well, my Lord.”

Harry had to keep the sigh of relief from falling from him as Voldemort left them be. They weren’t in the clear yet. Septimus - whoever that was – was transporting them up to the room which he would be sharing with Snape for the next few days at least. Harry kept very quiet and lingered behind as they went up the stairs, and Severus was speaking in another language to their guide – Italian, it sounded like.

Doing his best to understand a word, Harry let himself follow after Snape. As he tried to comprehend the conversation, he looked around, taking in his surrounding, and everything that was taken straight from Hogwarts. Despite how much he had settled into the situation, the feeling of obscure threat had not dispelled. There was still something awful about everything – not any object in particular; but them all as one.

By the time they’d reached the room, Harry had come to a morbid conclusion about the building, one that chilled him right to the bone.

This place; created of Hogwarts relics, was a Horcrux: all of it; the very building itself.

When he confided this to Snape it made him pale, looking around uncomfortably. “Are you sure? It doesn’t feel any different to me…”

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed in the ivory coloured room, fixing Snape with his most serious stare. “I know what I’m talking about,” he told him, slowly, just in case that got the point across. “I’ve always had this…connection to him. When I was inside the diary, I could feel it too. I can’t explain it…it feels like he’s there all the time – all around me.” He paused, because Snape had just looked around, and he waved his hands. “No…no, he’s not: the Horcrux is a detached part of his soul, capable of thinking for itself, but no longer a part of him.”

The hand that fell on Harry’s shoulder was reassuring. “At least we’ve identified another one. How many does that make now?”

“Regulus’ locket, Gaunt’s Ring, Hufflepuff’s cup, the diary and the castle.” This time, Harry knew that he’d felt Snape flinch at the mention of that first name. He turned towards the older man and looked into his eyes. “What is it?”

Snape grit his teeth and pulled his hand away, glaring. “What is what, Potter? You’re imagining things again.

“I’m not imagining anything,” Harry countered, coldly. “I know what this is, Snape. This is avoidance. What is it about Regulus Black that you’re so determined to conceal from me?”

“If there was anything, it’s none of your business,” Severus hissed, standing up and going to the door. “No, Harry,” he said, when Harry rose to follow him. “Your orders are to stay here and wait for my return.” When he left, Harry heard the door click as he locked it.

* * * * *


	11. Jealousy and Such Things

When the door creaked open, half an hour later, Harry sat up straight, expecting to see Snape come in; but instead, looked into steely storm grey eyes that he did not recognize straight away. Whoever it was grinned, showing off a set full of crooked teeth; and these were far more recognizable than the face. None the less, Harry strained to connect a name to those teeth. He was something from a life long ago… no - from his life at Hogwarts.

“What’s wrong Potter? Don’t remember who I am, do you?”

It didn’t matter that Harry didn’t recognize who this person was: the fact that he was a threat was far more prevalent. When he spoke, Harry was pleased that he hadn’t recognized him, because it would have ruined the guise of being an innocent, and mostly transfigured Muggle.

Harry didn’t speak because he wasn’t supposed to. He just stayed in his place on the bed and waited. His visitor would make himself known…and his intentions would come clear soon enough, although Harry half suspected he knew what those intentions were already. He wet his lips nervously.

Whoever it was had the advantage of height over Harry. That much he could tell from where he was. “You’re going to be good, aren’t you? Else I’m going to go to the Dark Lord and tell him that you told me that you _were_ Harry Potter.”

A stab of icy fear plunged into his gut, making him shiver and lean back. His terror must have shown in his eyes, because the man stepped forwards, leering, and Harry suddenly recognized him – or rather, remembered who he was.

Marcus Flint.

The worst thing was that Marcus Flint had a grudge against Harry, didn’t he? Hadn’t Gryffindor – thanks to Harry’s excellent Seeker skills – ripped a successful Quidditch career from his hands by beating him to the Quidditch Cup during his last school year as captain? This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Terrified, aren’t you, pretty little toy. Well nevermind... I’m here to show you what a real man can do.” Harry came to his feet and moved away as Flint came closer. “You’ve been living with Draco and Snape for too long; you’ve been pampered. You’re just like him now…delicious.” Flint’s pink tongue flickered out over his lips, and it was perhaps the most horrible thing that Harry had ever seen. He backed up further, horrified – around to the other side of the bed.

“Ah ah…” Flint murmured, coming to a stop and pointing one crooked and broken finger at the bed. “If you know what’s good for you you’ll get back on the bed and be good.”

Harry trembled. If he didn’t do what he was told, Flint would tell his master that this was the real Harry Potter, and he wouldn’t be able to dispute it. If it went as far as Veritaserum… 

He had no choice, and climbed onto the bed, lying back, looking down at his shaking left hand where it lay flat on the bed beside him. He wouldn’t look at Flint; his face would betray him. This was worse than his first time with Draco; far worse than Lucius Malfoy. It was impossible to steel himself for this.

There was nothing worse than feeling that strange foreign hand move onto his ankle, then up over his calf, pushing his schoolrobes up easily. The other hand came up, maliciously squeezing at his crotch, so that a whimper was forced from Harry’s throat. Wrong…so wrong – but nobody was here to stop this; there was nobody here to save him. He could use his wand… No. No, he mustn’t do that.

Flint’s hands were brutal and calloused; much unlike the gentle warmth of Snape’s, or the manicured pleasuring touch that Draco had nurtured. They bruised his nipples as they tweaked, and ripped the seam under one arm as they yanked his robes up before he was ready, burning at his skin. The hands were nothing to the cruelty of Flint’s uneven teeth, biting and marking him ruthlessly; he cried out despite himself, but nobody was coming.

It was only when the absurdity of being raped by Marcus Flint of all people had struck him, and a hand was buried in his underwear – the last bit of modesty he had left – molesting ruthlessly at his genitals, did Snape decide to show his face again in the doorway. If anything, Harry could believe that he was the angel of revenge, raining down pain and terror on Flint, and when his screaming brought a half dressed Septimus running down the hall, cursing in his foreign tongue, he kicked Flint out at his feet, and slammed the door ferociously, leaving the two of them alone.

There was a booming, resounding silence after the screaming – and Harry, stunned, hadn’t moved from the bed on which he lay, or the debauched position in which he’d been left. After a few seconds, Harry coughed, and looked down at himself, tucking himself away and turning bright red. 

More silence, and finally: “What the hell possessed you to let him do that to you?!”

Snape was angry – not that Harry hadn’t already noticed – and it left him wondering why. Why was Snape angry? Was it fear of his secret being given away? Something else? Still…Snape shouldn’t be angry with him; this wasn’t his fault.

“He threatened to tell _him_ that I’m the real Harry Potter.” He quickly went on before Snape could interrupt. “No, he didn’t know – but it was a good enough threat. If there was even the slightest doubt, he’d use Veritaserum, or worse.”

“So you just rolled over for him?!”

Snape was jealous. Harry licked his lips nervously and sat up, leaning forwards. “I weighed my options,” he said, slowly. “I had to make a choice.”

Now Snape just growled. It was such a strange, animalistic noise, that Harry had to do a double take. It was amazingly…uncontrolled; something that he did not normally associate with the man. He liked it.

“Just make sure you lock the door next time,” Harry said, trying to lighten the mood. Another growl; although this one was a lot more like a grunt – Snape wasn’t looking at him, and it put him off.

“Um…I think I’ll just go fix my make up,” Harry said, standing up on weak legs, and looking at Severus again unsteadily. 

He was half way to the door when a hand stopped him, turned him, and pushed him into the wall, all in one smooth movement. Suddenly Snape was up against him, that strong, warm, all encompassing body pressed up against him, holding him in position.

If Harry’s mind had been working properly, he might have considered how strange it was to be pinned to the wall like this by Snape; this was a man he didn’t completely understand. Severus had hated James Potter, and yet there was something undermining all of that. The way he treated Harry was…unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It was absolutely nothing like the way that Draco had treated him, it was almost deeper, long lasting – coupled with a hero complex – that had been there all along, if he only thought about it. In school, Snape had protected him. Why? Harry’s mind wasn’t working in its usual way, however…

Snape was right there, his body promising all sorts of things that Harry didn’t understand why he wanted. He was…possessive, powerful, potent… The places where Snape’s body touched him felt like they were on fire, and Snape was pressed against him like molten metal, molded against his form, pinning him in place, his breath falling hot on Harry’s lips from inches away.

“You belong to _me_ , Potter, that is my rule. I don’t care what they do, or threaten, you don’t let anyone else touch you without my permission. You obey _me_ and _me alone_ , and this is my command to you; my _only_ command.”

Harry didn’t breathe, he didn’t know how. Surely that could be dangerous…but the look in Snape’s eyes promised that disobeying would be even more. Oh. Oh. That was exciting. He felt like he must be very red – he could feel his burning cheeks cooling in the already warm air. He took in a sudden breath, and that was when Snape dove down, kissing him like he had before; passion and hunger – devouring him – lips moving against his own. Even so, he’d never been kissed like this. Not even the niggling wonder at how _Snape_ of all people had learnt to kiss quite so amazingly spoiled the intensity of the moment. When Snape withdrew, all Harry could think about was how amazing it had been, and how he should surely be seeing stars right now, or cute animated bluebirds flying around his head.

“Will you do what you’re told, Harry? Will you do things my way from now on?” Not Potter this time, the kiss had clearly calmed down the older man. Still somewhat stunned, Harry licked his lips, and blinked slowly a few times to recover before he could trust himself to speak.

Even when he could speak he couldn’t quite decide what to say; finally he settled on the right words, and tilted his head back, meeting Snape’s eyes. Good humouredly – for the first time in months, and considerably bizarre because they were inside Voldemort’s stronghold – Harry said “Fuck yes,” and grinned. “Will you be teaching me to kiss like that?” he added, terribly pleased with himself for coming up with such a brilliant retort when the ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of Snape’s lips.

“If we have time amongst your other studies,” Snape answered, but it was clear that he was considering just that. Despite the delays in the last week, Harry and Severus had inched closer to each other. This most recent position that they found themselves in could be the start of something far grander.

Harry was admittedly a little bit confused, but it didn’t matter – he longed for it – but predictably Snape held out on him. One day…one day soon he’d get what he wanted.

“Fix your make up, Harry,” Snape said, slipping back. The sentiment was in his look, but there was no fluffy kissing or gentle romanticism. Harry didn’t expect it either: as far as he knew, Snape wasn’t going to be anything of the romantic sort – he was much more business like, and hardly emotional at all; Harry liked that, he had nothing to lose, and neither did Snape; but the anticipation was delicious. Severus knew how to work him, and while his reasons for being interested might be still a matter of debate, it kept Harry on his toes, longing for every moment of seduction.

It turned out his make up wasn’t terribly untidy, but the brief reprieve was what he needed. He smiled at himself in the mirror, and unpacked his small bag, and fixed the gold on his cheeks and lips. He leant back and looked over at the doorway, expecting to see Snape watching him, but either he wasn’t there or he’d missed him. He stood up, and made his way back into the other room; looking at Snape, who was sitting in the most comfortable looking chair looking bored. It made Harry wonder whether he had been imagining him standing in the doorway. Maybe he was just losing it.

“Ah, so you’re ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry answered, timidly. “Are you sure I can do this?”

Snape seemed to consider for a moment, and then stood, approaching Harry. He could tell that there was going to be more than a word spoken now; Snape’s expression was business-like, but almost…sympathetic. Harry didn’t question when Snape stepped past him; clearly this new sensation was unnerving him, and eye contact was out of the question.

So Harry listened ever so carefully when Snape spoke, because it must be important.

“I have seen you do some incredible things, Harry. I would be the last to glorify you unnecessarily, believe it. Despite being little more than a child, you were more than that – powerful before your time, wise beyond your years, braver than any man that I have ever met.”

Although he had suspected that something might be coming, Harry had not expected a full blown volley of compliments. Not from Snape. It unnerved him, knocked him thoroughly off kilter. But Snape wasn’t done.

“You have faced down dragons, werewolves, Ministry officials, Death Eaters, Voldemort no less than six times, and even me. You taught thirty students enough to help them hold Hogwarts alone for three months. You battled until you knew it was fruitless to continue fighting, and when you had to go, you did it graciously; slipped into obscurity just as you needed to so that you could fight another day.”

“You have faced this…” He gestured grandly, continuing to Harry’s sustained surprise, “…With courage, despite what has been necessary, and what has been done to you. You have survived, Harry, and you will survive this.”

Finally Snape turned and looked straight at Harry, his black eyes shining with something that Harry was surprised to see in that face. They held each others gazes for a moment, and finally Harry nodded, averting his. It was time to go.

“Better not keep him waiting any longer,” he said, bravely – and he could almost feel the pride burning off Snape when the older man conservatively placed his hand on his shoulder. There was no need for words, Snape stepped forward, and Harry followed him like the obedient slave that he was pretending to be. They would only have one chance to pull this off; they mustn’t fail.

The room in which they were to be joined by Voldemort turned out to be grander than anything that Harry had seen at the Malfoys. Voldemort’s house, if it could be called that, was magnificently huge. This lunchroom was vast, and one wall opened up onto the garden, which was in full summer bloom – apparently Voldemort employed a good gardener, though the likeliness was that ‘employed’ was not the correct word.

Inside, the room was decked in gold and white; expensive fresco work bordered the room, exaggerated the doorways impressively, and framed the garden like a picture, and Harry, upon taking his place by the main double doors at one end, kneeling, found that a look from below at the rest of the room revealed it to be no less lavish. The floor was tiled in white Carrara marble, and the ornate, marble, gilded table was the length of only three quarters of the room, but large enough to seat a hundred people comfortably, despite the fact that Voldemort’s ‘throne’ took up a good three spaces on its own. 

“Severus.” Harry had to fight to control his surprise at the sound of Voldemort’s voice inside the room, as he’d expected him to come through the large double doors. He didn’t look up, though he wanted to. His best defense against Legilimency was simply not to meet Voldemort’s eyes at all.

“My Lord,” Although also a little surprised, Severus too had covered it well, and spread his arms wide to either side, bowing forwards with his face turned up towards Voldemort, and his eyes wide open, submitting totally. Voldemort did not shy, he looked down into those dark eyes and read what Snape gave him. A passionate moment holding Harry to a wall, his fury at Flint – further back still – Harry in his house, and further, at Draco’s, admiring his hard work.

There was a pause as the Dark Lord considered what he had seen, and then he said, “Yes, he is a fine specimen, isn’t he? The best I’ve seen…and that same spark of rebellion in his eyes. The others they use are so bland…they’ve been worked into their jobs so well. Well then,” he clapped his hands together. “Let us eat, Severus, and I will bore you with my plans to bring in fresh blood from the rest of the world.”

Naturally, wizard breeding was the last of the things that Severus was interested in. Inevitably, the question always rolled back around – when would Severus marry, and pass on his cunning, wit and intelligence to a new generation. Something that Severus had no intention at all of doing.

“The DuLac family have a beautiful daughter, Severus – she’d please you, I’m sure. Hair as black as jet, and eyes like pure hematite. Just like your dear Regulus.”

Harry looked up despite himself, from the doorway where he still rested, waiting. Regulus again? Why would Severus want a wife who looked like Regulus? It didn’t make any sense!

“My Lord,” Severus said, softly. “I’m sure that she is indeed beautiful as you say; but you know my opinion on women…they are the inferior sex.”

“Indeed they are, Severus, of that there is no doubt; but they are also the only way of producing children…and, despite your…distaste, surely it is easier to impregnate a woman who resembles the man you used to love than one who does not?”

Everything made sense all at once. Severus and Regulus Black had been lovers. They had been in love. And then Regulus had gone looking for a Horcrux and died, and left Severus alone. No wonder he was bitter. No wonder the thought of Voldemort being alive drove him on. It was a travesty – Regulus had died to bring him down.

Harry dug his fingers into his knees and turned his eyes away, forcing back tears he suddenly felt, imagining how awful Severus must have felt then, and even now, hiding it all. How could he do it?

“Perhaps you are right, my Lord. I shall, of course, give it some thought.”

Voldemort seemed happy, and continued to eat, although his bright eyes shot from Harry to Snape and back again. It wasn’t much later that he leant back in his chair and proclaimed. “You may leave us, Severus.”

Leave? Harry had to tighten his grip not to swing his head around in fear, or even run. Alone, with Voldemort? That wasn’t what he’d been expecting at all!

Severus seemed hesitant too, but a sharp look from Voldemort made him rise, bow, and leave without question, though Harry had no doubt that he was just outside the door, afraid for him.

“Now then, Harry.”

Harry’s insides turned to ice. He looked down at his hands, watching them tremble. Oh, how he wished he was back in the factory now… He almost lost control, almost let the splitting pain in his head break forth as Voldemort’s fingers brushed against his brow. Pain… No. There was no pain; there mustn’t be.

“Come with me,” hissed the soft, menacing voice, and Harry rose, obediently, keeping his eyes turned down, moving after Voldemort as he made his way to the large windows, and walked straight through them, as though they weren’t there, out into the garden.

Harry stopped at the windows, as though not sure, and only when Voldemort beckoned him did he close his eyes tightly and force himself to step forwards through the glass. It felt icy cold around him for the tiniest of moments, and then he was out in the warm sunshine – refreshing and warm.

Voldemort’s high, serpentine voice called again, and Harry rushed to catch up, falling into step just behind him, his head bowed submissively. They moved deeper into the sculpted garden, past ornamental ponds, a waterfall, a massive rockery that climbed out of the earth, and Harry recognized that rock, and that part of shattered gargoyle, now rounded with the effect of the water pouring down over it.

This whole place was a testament to the destruction of Hogwarts – to Voldemort’s victory. Still Voldemort led the way, and Harry stole himself for something potentially horrible up ahead. His fears did not go unheeded. 

As they broke through bushes to the other side of the grounds, the most gruesome sight accosted him – four large sandtimer shaped glass structures stood up against a bit of the Hogwarts castle that looked like it had been ripped out intact. 

Harry knew what they were instantly; they’d once contained shining jewels the size of eggs, and represented house points. Now…now they contained skulls. Hundreds upon hundreds of them; some still with rotting flesh attached to the bone, some with matted hair in brown, black, blonde and russet.

Harry stepped back instantly, revolted, turned, and threw up under a particularly handsome rose bush, scratching his face with the thorns as he did so, his hands braced on the ground beside him where he had fallen.

“Something wrong?” breathed Voldemort in another hiss, his voice close to Harry’s ear. A hand slithered up into his hair and held it tight as whispering breaths tickled at his ear. “How awful it must be to see all those deaths that you have caused, Harry Potter.”

Harry stopped panting, holding his breath for a long, painful moment, realizing just what Voldemort was saying. But how had he known? _How?!_

_“Rassha, sso-conno, tschsshia, ta-tess-est?”_

Harry heard it that time, he heard every word, as though detached from his body; Voldemort’s soft hiss in Parseltongue, and he knew he must have been speaking that way since they were at the house. 

“No,” he said, weakly, but Voldemort was pulling his head back, looking down into his green eyes and smiling, in that horrible way that made Harry feel like he’d rather be dead already. It was the same way that Voldemort had smiled at him before their parody of a duel, all the way back in fourth year. 

Harry knew that whatever happened next was not going to be pleasant.


	12. A Different Kind of Hatred

“You’ve been hiding from me.”

Hiding was an understatement. Harry struggled against Voldemort’s unbreakable grip, his green eyes wide, fixed boldly upon their red counterparts. His hands flew up, and he dug his fingernails into Voldemort’s flesh, trying to wrench himself free – but wherever he touched felt like molten metal, burning his fingertips.

Voldemort spoke again, as though Harry was not fighting like a wildcat. His voice held a tinge of amusement. “Where do you think you’re going to run to, Harry?” There was no way that Harry was going to dignify him with an answer; all that was important was getting free. It didn’t matter where he went after that.

Not immediately did the next question come. Voldemort seemed to be deciding exactly what to say. The question he decided upon stilled Harry instantly. “Tell me, Harry, am I the first of your Masters to know who you are?”

“I thought so,” Voldemort drawled, softly. “I shall have them both executed immediately.”

“No!” Harry gasped, dropping his hands down to the ground, digging them into the soft grass. “They don’t know, neither of them. Malfoy wouldn’t have sold me if he’d known…”

Voldemort seemed to consider this for a moment, his scarlet gaze examining Harry’s expression, then, reaching into his mind – Harry thought hard about that day at Malfoy’s, when Severus had come to buy him, the bargaining over the table, and Hermione. He let Voldemort see him hugging her, crying, before she had to go back to Draco – and when his head was finally empty, he dropped it, as though defeated.

“And Severus?”

“Would have killed me by now if he knew,” Harry looked back up, quickly. “He hates me.”

“Do you really think so, Harry?” Again, Voldemort seemed to find this funny. He leant forward. “The amount of times I had to call Severus on his…favouritism…you might be surprised. He spared your life so many times.” Now Voldemort sneered, and stood up, pulling Harry to his full height beside him.

Harry tried to control his fear, but it wasn’t possible; it just wasn’t. Voldemort, standing beside him, looking down at him and knowing who he was! He didn’t have his wand, and he didn’t think it would help if he did. This was danger. This was what he’d been avoiding, hiding in the Muggle factories with everyone else.

“Severus gave up a priceless slave for you, Harry…even if you aren’t aware of it, I am sure that he knew who you were. He has riches enough of his own to change any old Muggle into an approximation. Perhaps he saw, as I did, that you not only looked like Harry, but wore his skin far too well.”

“He couldn’t!” Harry said sharply, and then bowed his head. “If he knew, why would he bring me to you?”

Now Voldemort was smiling; a most horrendous, sickly thing, and Harry shook his head hard. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t!”

But what if Snape had brought him here to give him to Voldemort? What if he had told him? No…no, he hadn’t. Harry was quite aware of what Severus really was, but he wasn’t about to bring it up. He mustn’t think about Snape. Voldemort looked content…unless Harry brought it up, the subject was at a close, and Harry preferred it that way. If he even thought that Snape’s intentions were any different, Voldemort might see.

“What are you going to do to me?” Harry asked, trying to sound weak and pathetic – it was easy in Voldemort’s company to sound afraid.

Voldemort’s eyes seemed to glow from within, and now Harry was sure that they lit with a malicious gleam. “Oh, Harry; I’ve been thinking of what to do with you for so very long…but I have to admit, it is so very entertaining an idea…” 

Harry didn’t like the sound of that.

“Come along, Harry,” a soft purr, a sharp tug to his hair that forced Harry to follow him with his head half bowed. 

They made their way back to the house, a little more uncomfortably this time than before, and Harry had to fight his fear. What was going to happen to him? What did Voldemort have planned?

Harry found himself on his back inside the house, Voldemort looming over him. For a minute, he thought that Voldemort might…but apparently not everyone wanted to screw him. It was a relief…but also not. What he had in mind must be far worse even than that.

“You will stay here until I come back for you,” Voldemort hissed, his voice menacing. He drew his wand, and Harry flinched despite himself. Damn…it had been too long. Voldemort laughed, low and deep. “What’s wrong, Harry? Did you lose your nerve?” Harry kept his eyes turned away: he didn’t want Voldemort to see that he was right.

A few spells later and the room was locked tight, and Voldemort was gone, leaving Harry time to get up and look around for possible escape routes. He tried…but there was nothing; he even attempted to leap through the large glass windows, but they repelled him with ease.

As the seconds ticked by, Harry began to panic. Where was Snape? What was Voldemort going to do to him? Where had he gone, and what terrible thing might he bring back with him?

There was no way out. No way to save himself. He could only wait…and apparently, Voldemort was going to keep him waiting. And waiting. It was torturous – nearly an hour later when finally he came back, with Snape in tow.

“Harry,” Voldemort was the first to speak, his voice soft, his head bowed towards him. “Severus has agreed to bear your punishment.”

Harry frowned, confused. What? What did that mean? Snape was going to be punished instead of him? He looked towards Snape, who was sneering.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” said the other man, “But I believe Potter has misunderstood…” Snape came closer, reached out and took hold of Harry’s robes at the collar, yanking him forwards in a motion that surprised Harry in its brutishness. “I am your punishment, brat.”

Dark eyes burned into his own; black eyes full of fury, and something else…pictures. Harry could see them as clear as though they were his own thoughts or memories. Severus was telling him, making him understand.

_“Severus, you did well to bring him to me.”_

_Quickly he stood from the writing desk, turning his full attention towards the Dark Lord, and bowing his head graciously. “My Lord.”_

_“Harry Potter, Severus. You brought him to me, so that I could punish him…but…I have my own punishment in mind.”_

_Now Severus turned entirely. How could it be that Voldemort knew? How could he know that the boy that he had brought really was Harry Potter? Unless Harry had slipped up somehow, and really, couldn’t it be possible? Voldemort and Harry had a connection, something that went beyond physical being._

_Vividly Severus remembered all that had remained of Quirrel, a pile of dust, lying beside Harry – just Harry, clutching the Philospher’s Stone. That’s when he had known that Harry was special, much more than just a boy. There was something inside him worth fighting for. It made it all the more frustrating every time that Harry had made a stupid mistake – knowing that he was better than that._

_Yes, Voldemort must know; just as Severus had known the moment he’d seen him._

_“What do you have in mind, my Lord?”_

_“What do you think Potter hates more than anything in the world?”_

_“I have no idea, my Lord…”_

_“Yes, you do, Severus. He hates you.”_

_Severus tilted his head, questioningly, and came closer. “What exactly are you suggesting, My Lord…? I’m not sure I understand…”_

_Voldemort smiled, walking around Severus, his eyes half turned towards him. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully, to see how Severus would react to them. He had to be careful not to reveal anything. Voldemort respected Severus’ ability to mask his emotions, he would be disappointed, but no less pleased._

_“Who better to make Harry’s life a misery than the man he hates so; and who hates him in turn? I have no doubt, Severus, that you are the best man for the job._

_“I realise that when you brought him here, you expected me to dispatch him, and shower you with prizes for the pleasure…but I find that his…prolonged suffering is a much more lasting gift. Make him suffer for me, Severus.”_

_Well…that certainly made up for Harry’s discovery. Voldemort was actually awarding him back to Snape. That was useful._

_“My Lord,” he breathed, as though in reverence. “It would be my honour.”_

_“I am glad you think so, Severus... Come, let us go and give Harry the…good news.”_

The memories flashed by so fast that it seemed as though nothing had transpired, but it was there, the memory, ready to be called on as he wanted. So…he had been awarded to Snape. Now it was time to play along.

“That’s…no! Not him!” Harry fought against Snape’s grip, eyes wild, hands coming up, pushing and clawing desperately at the older man’s chest in an effort to get away. “Not you!”

“Yes, Potter, me. And yes, I do know your little secret. Did you really think that you could fool me? Really?” He leaned closer, almost lip to lip, and Harry could practically feel the spite flowing off him in waves. Or was it sexual tension – it was hard to define between the two recently.

“I’d rather die,” Harry growled, falling still, his fingers sunk deep into Severus’ shoulders.

“Oh…not yet,” Severus purred, “You don’t deserve such an easy escape. You deserve to suffer, and the Dark Lord has been kind enough to give me the privilege.” He sneered again, delighted, and leaned back, 

“Bastard,” Harry hissed, his head lowered, nostrils flared. He tugged hard again, and for a moment it seemed like Snape would lose his grip, so Harry didn’t pull so hard the second time, and let him get control again. “You won’t get anything out of me.” Severus looked confused somehow…

Voldemort drew forwards suddenly, and Harry felt his nails for an instant on his cheek before the contact made him yell in pain, dropping in Severus’ grip, so that the older man had to hold him up. Voldemort’s high, hissing voice tickled his ear like a feather, “I don’t think Severus speaks Parseltongue, Harry.”

Now Voldemort was moving away, although to Harry’s distress he noticed that he did not leave the room. He didn’t like this one bit…

Harry fell forwards as Severus let him go, dropping down to his knees before him. A boot in the side urged more than kicked him over, and he threw himself into the fall, gasping as he rolled onto his back and clutching at his side, glaring up at Severus, trying to remember that hatred he had felt before so that he could at least act this a little better.

“Don’t bother trying to get up, Potter. You’re where you belong now.” 

Dark eyes lingered on Harry for an instant before Snape turned his attention to Voldemort. “My Lord?”

Voldemort seemed to think about this for a while, as Harry fought to get back to his feet somehow. “Make him suffer, Severus. What do you plan to do?”

“Oh, my Lord…simple torture is not enough for Potter. He needs to despise what I do to him. It has to destroy his soul, not his body. Isn’t that right, Potter?” 

Harry had found his feet, and he stared back at the two older men, shaking, hands falled into fists at his sides. “You can do what the hell you like,” he spat. “But don’t think it’ll work.”

Severus smiled, and cast Voldemort an appreciative look before approaching Harry, coming to stand before him. Harry didn’t retreat; he held his ground, and their gaze, stubbornly. “It won’t work,” he said again, lifting his jaw.

“Always were too headstrong for your own good, Potter; but pride comes before a fall, and you have such a long way to fall.”

Voldemort was watching with interest, so Harry did his best to be bold and yet terrified. He backed up as Snape stepped forwards, and that was when Snape lunged, hand clamping in Harry’s hair and pulling him back while he was off balance, holding him against the hard was as Snape closed in. Hard lips fell on his own; rough and grating and bruising. This wasn’t a passionate kiss; it was a hurtful one. Harry’s hands came up instinctively to defend himself; pushing against Snape’s chest, for all the good it would do. He gasped in pain as Severus bit down and drew blood, so that when the kiss ended, their lips were bloody.

The laugh that filled the room was high and cruel, and Harry turned his head, ashamed, as Voldemort came closer to them. “So this is what you have in mind, Severus. It explains things, I must say…” There was a pause, and a slow smile spread over the man’s close-lipped mouth. “Very well…you may keep him for these games, too, and I will…put my plans for your marriage on hold.”

Now Voldemort made his way to the door, and held it open wide. “I imagine you want to take him to somewhere a little more private. Please do, Severus…I have no intention of watching you play.”

Severus smiled, and Harry glowered resentfully back at him as he took hold of his collar and pulled him away. “Thank you, My Lord,” said the elder man, respectfully, as they passed through the door, and Harry shivered as they moved past Voldemort, feeling those cold red eyes on the back of his head.

Only when they were back in their room did Harry feel even vaguely comfortable again, he fell down onto the bed and reached up for the pillow, pulling it down over his head.

“Harry.” Something heavy fell onto the bed beside him, and a warm contact touched the small of his back, then rubbed in a little circle. “Harry,” said the voice again, this time a little more firmly, and Harry submitted, pushing the pillow back off his head and half turning it, looking up at Snape weakly.

“Severus,” he said, weakly. “He knows. He knows.”

“That’s right, Harry,” Snape answered, looking down, reaching down to stroke Severus’ cheek gently. “He knows. So we must adapt our plans. Nothing more. He let you stay with me. You know that was a mistake, and we shall make sure he regrets it, Harry.”

Harry turned onto his back, smiled and said confidently, “We will.”

“Yes, we will. Now, Harry…” Severus leant down, brushed his lips gently over Harry’s, and Harry sighed, reaching up to touch Severus’ cheek in return.

“Now what are you up to, Severus?” Harry breathed, smiling up at him as he pulled away.

“Oh, I’m making good on my promise to the Dark Lord,” breathed Severus, leaning close, flicking his tongue over Harry’s ear. “I have to punish you, Harry. Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

Harry grinned, despite himself, and reached up, wrapping his arms around Severus’ back and pulling him down into another eager kiss.

“Really?” he asked, softly. “You really mean that?”

Severus smiled, his dark eyes closing for a moment, before he leant down and flicked his tongue over Harry’s lips. “Yes, Harry, I mean it.”

“Brilliant.”

Severus actually laughed for once, and kissed him gently, careful not to break open the cut on Harry’s lips. Such a gentle, wonderful kiss. Harry smiled when Severus pulled back, and reached up to pull the pillow under his head.

“You needed Voldemort to convince you of that?”

“Maybe,” Severus said, but he was smiling.


End file.
